Courage and Insubordination
by Kimmeth
Summary: Two things were required to defeat Voldemort. Courage and insubordination. An alternative unfolding of book seven…
1. Minerva in Disarray

**Summary: **Two things were required to defeat Voldemort. Courage and insubordination. An alternative unfolding of book seven…

**Disclaimer: **Anything recognisable belongs to JKR; any OC's will be clearly labelled. The idea is my own. This tale begins at roughly the same time as the real book seven.

**Note: **This idea has been brewing for three and a half years. Book seven left me disillusioned and dissatisfied, to the point where I decided to rewrite it into the end of the series that I wanted to see. I have used some ideas and situations from the real book seven. In the end, it ended up slightly more epic than I was planning.

**Note2: **The Death Eaters have always been a source of fascination for me. This story is told from many different viewpoints, both light and dark. I felt the DE's needed more of a say, and well, the title is hopefully a clue…

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**Courage, n: **"That quality of mind which shows itself in **facing danger without fear or shrinking**; bravery, boldness, valour."

**Insubordination, n: **"The fact or condition of being insubordinate; absence of subordination or submission; resistance to or **defiance of authority; refusal to obey orders**; refractoriness, disobedience."

(Definitions from OED Online; emphasis is my own.)

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**Courage and Insubordination**

**Chapter One**

**Minerva in Disarray**

Minerva McGonagall, acting headmistress of Hogwarts School of Witchcraft and Wizardry, was at a complete loss. She sat in the high-backed chair in the headmaster's office, a chair that she had grown accustomed to seeing Albus occupy with all his nobility and grandeur, and it felt completely _wrong_ to be sitting in it herself. She sighed. She had seen Albus worried in this chair; she had seen him happy, and she had seen him angry, but he had always looked at home there; as if he belonged in the dark wood and slightly faded burgundy velvet. If anyone saw Minerva at that point, the first thing that they would say was that she looked uncomfortable, no doubt because she felt uncomfortable. Uncomfortable and out of place, but here she was, sitting in the chair and feeling no great desire to move from it.

The events of the past few days had drained her physically as well as emotionally, and whilst she felt as if she should not be sitting in the sacrosanct chair, Minerva was so glad to be sitting at all and not having to support her own weight on her lead-like feet that she had no inclination to get up. She raised her gaze from the table and twisted to view the portrait of the man whose office she felt like she was intruding upon. He was sleeping as usual; indeed Minerva had never seen him awake in all of the many fleeting visits that she had paid to the room. The other pictures had assured her that this was natural and nothing to worry about. Portraits spent most of their time asleep after they had been called into being in order to help them cope with their new existence. That was all very well for Albus, thought Minerva darkly, but not quite so convenient for the current head, who was anxious to speak with her predecessor on all manner of subjects, including, but not limited to, the small problems of You-Know-Who, Albus's murderer, You-Know-Who, Albus's would-be murderer, You-Know-Who and Harry Potter, in no particular order. Minerva shook her head as she lowered her eyes to the desk once more, tearing her wistful thoughts away from the painting. Albus looked so peaceful, asleep like any other elderly man, and it seemed selfish of her to be wishing him awake so that she could overload him with all her problems. The man was going to be as burdened in pigment as he had been in flesh, and she did not want to be the one to cause such a burden. Sometimes, though, sacrifices had to be made, especially in a time of war. Minerva rested her head in her hands and closed her eyes. Sometimes the senselessness of it all made her want to break down and cry, but she had not the energy to do so now. She had cried too much in the past days to warrant a fresh burst of angry and ultimately completely useless tears. No, it was time to start thinking constructively, time to start thinking as a head-teacher should think. She had held the post of deputy for so many years that one would have thought that she would be prepared for the main event of headship once it arrived, but she was woefully unready, pitifully unready. What was to become of Hogwarts now that it had been proved, in the most spectacular of fashions, that this once-safe haven was no longer safe? The man whose presence had protected them all for so many decades was now gone. They might as well open the gates to the Death Eaters there and then.

And Severus... Albus had trusted him when no-one else would; he had stood up for the troubled young man and risked ridicule in doing so, and this was the way that Severus had repaid him. Half of Minerva didn't want to believe it, that it was all some kind of elaborate hoax. The other half knew that she had to believe it, as troubling as the thought was. Half of her wanted to meet Severus again so that she could mete out her personal revenge; the other never wanted to lay eyes on his traitorous face for as long as they both lived. She was so conflicted, so completely shattered by the events that had just occurred, and all the multiple facets of her splintered mind were at war. She needed to focus, to pull the various pieces of herself back together, and face the grim facts of reality, and she needed to do it right away.

Minerva took a deep breath, straightened her back to its usual rigid position, and opened her eyes, willing herself ready for anything that life, magic or You-Know-… no, Voldemort, Albus always said to use his proper name, could throw at her.

It was only a split second later that Minerva found this resolve sorely tested as her eyes alighted on a letter on the desk in front of her. It was a letter that had most definitely not been there before, and as the windows were closed, it could not have been delivered by a midday owl. To heighten the mystery further, the letter was written undeniably in Albus's hand. Was this some kind of inappropriate joke? It seemed bulky, as if something other than sheaves of parchment was stored within the envelope.

Minerva picked up the letter gingerly between thumb and forefinger, turning it over to see the seal still intact, the shining of the purple wax seeming to wink at her in the sunlight. She flipped it back, noting the barely perceptible chinking of glass that it gave, and stared at the words written on the envelope.

_Professor Minerva McGonagall, Headmistress of Hogwarts School of Witchcraft and Wizardry. _

She could not deny that the letter had reached its intended recipient, however it might have been delivered. She took another deep breath, and then another when her courage failed her the first time, and she slid a finger under the flap of the envelope, breaking the seal before allowing four tiny vials to roll out into her waiting palm. She knew what they were with a single glance. They were memory vials, the silvery threads suspended in them seeming so calm and unaware of the havoc they were playing with the witch's mind. If this letter was truly from Albus, be it a communication from before or beyond the grave, and these were Albus's memories...

The tiniest of sparks of hope ignited within Minerva's chest, a soft and faint glow in the centre of her being, breathing new life into her numb and heavy limbs, rejuvenating her courage and resolve. She set the memories carefully on the table and slid the sheets of parchment from the envelope. As she began to read, the little flicker of hope in her breast became ever and ever stronger, until she could almost feel it roaring in her ears like the symbol of her house.

_My dear Minerva_, the letter began.

_If you are reading this then I am dead, and if all has gone according to plan, at the hands of Severus Snape. Whilst originally you were not going to be privy to the information I am about to share, I feel that as you are stepping into my shoes, possibly in more ways than one, you deserve to know the truth about everything that has been happening in the past twelve months without your knowledge. How much of this information you choose to share, and with whom, is left entirely to your own discretion. I trust your judgement implicitly Minerva and I always have. Let it be said that of my many, many regrets, making you my deputy has never been one of them. _

_But before I relate this tale, I must first ask you to think back to a night nearly sixteen years ago now, when Harry Potter first became the Boy Who Lived. We spoke outside his aunt and uncle's house, and you expressed your incredulity that I could explain everything to the muggles in a simple letter. Well, this time, you are correct. This time, I cannot express everything that needs to be said here in a letter, and you must believe me – this is the twenty-sixth draft of this missive. So I have decided that it would be simpler, and use less ink and parchment, for me to send the enclosed memories instead. I hope that these will adequately explain everything that needs to be explained. _

_Please do not delay in viewing these memories Minerva; time is of the essence._

_Yours as always,_

_Albus Dumbledore. _

Minerva blinked. Such a short letter, and everything was even more unclear than it was before. She turned it over but there was nothing on the back, and she looked at the other folded sheets in her hand that had been in the envelope as well. Perhaps Albus had thought of something of vital importance after finishing the letter and he had held no desire to write it for a twenty-seventh time. She unfolded the parchment and looked at it.

_This is the Last Will and Testament of Albus Percival Wulfric Brian Dumbledore. _

_Minerva_, said the small note paper-clipped below the title line. _You have known for some time now that you are my Executrix and as such I enclose my Will with this letter. Yours, AD. _

Frustrated, Minerva tossed the Will down onto the desk, determining to deal with its contents later. She was anxious to view the memories and slightly afraid of what she might find within them at the same time, and she knew that she would be shaming the name of Gryffindor if she backed away from the task that had been set her in this critical moment. She picked up the memory vials and made her way over to the cupboard that housed the Pensieve. As Albus had said in the accompanying note, time was of the essence, but using the Pensieve was a process that Minerva had never considered as one that could be rushed. It was as if haste might make her careless and lose the memory forever, or make her miss something of vital importance in her hurry. There was also something a little foreign in the idea of simply walking into someone's mind, even if invited, and it was not something that Minerva could do without a little degree of mental preparation. She had always been a private person, and the intrusion seemed unnatural to her. Minerva shook her head to clear it of these distracting thoughts as she poured the memories into the basin, gently touching the shimmering surface with her wand to select the first in the chronological order. Always best to begin at the beginning.

The witch took a deep breath and looked into the Pensieve. She was ready for anything.

She was ready to learn that Albus's foolishness had led to his days being significantly numbered. As much as it pained her to admit it, Albus was not perfect. He had the same fatal flaws as any other man, although one tended to forget them when they were overshadowed by the light of his immensely good qualities. It was not the kindest of thoughts to accept, not the best memory to hold of the great man, but she knew that she must accept it with good grace, and so she did.

She was ready to learn that despite everything, despite all her personal thoughts towards the Potions Master, she should never have doubted where Albus placed his trust, and with that new knowledge, Minerva silently rejoiced as the lion in her heart roared with pride. She had not wanted to doubt Albus, She had not wanted him to be wrong, and now her hope was vindicated.

She was ready to learn that Severus had agreed to do what no magician should ever have to agree to do. The man had sacrificed so much in the line of duty, sacrificed so much for their cause, and he was prepared to give the ultimate sacrifice to protect one of those whom ultimately, they fought against. He was prepared to risk his soul…

She was ready to learn everything, except the contents of the last memory.

Pulling herself forcibly out of the Pensieve, Minerva didn't have time to summon the heavy chair towards her from across the room before she fell to the ground in a faint…

When she came round, not knowing how much time had passed since her collapse, the first thing that she became aware of was a familiar voice talking to her.

"I must say, Minerva," came the slick tones through her fuzzy head. "You do play the swooning damsel most adeptly."

Minerva blinked a few times and slowly got to her feet, at last summoning the chair towards her and sitting in it heavily.

"Are you alright Minerva?" asked Armando Dippet from somewhere in the vicinity of her left ear.

"Yes, thank you Armando." Minerva took a moment to gather her scattered thoughts before looking up and addressing the portrait that had spoken first. Phineas Nigellus was watching her with a politely amused expression.

"You too, Phineas, play the part of a decorative but ultimately useless wall-hanging exceedingly well."

"My dear Minerva, if I could have caught you before you hit the ground, I would have done," said Phineas.

"I somehow doubt that, Phineas."

"Your assault on my chivalry is deeply wounding, Minerva," Phineas began, but before he could continue, another voice entered the discussion.

"Now now, Phineas, this is not the time for provocation."

Phineas, affronted, left his painting with a snort. Minerva turned to view the latest addition to the portrait wall in the headmaster's office, finally awake and speaking to her.

"Albus?" she began, unsure of how to continue. There was so much she needed to say to him, and at the same time, she had no idea what to say. "How… How are you?"

"I am quite comfortable, Minerva," Albus replied with a small smile. "I do apologise for keeping you waiting like this, but these chairs are terribly soporific."

Minerva nodded her forgiveness, glancing back at the Pensieve in the corner unconsciously.

"Yes, it is indeed a terrible thing to try and comprehend. I am truly sorry that I did not make you aware of the events as they occurred. To see everything in one go…"

"Albus," said Minerva, deciding not to beat about the bush in her desire to learn all the facts. "Is it true?"

"I am afraid it is, Minerva." There was no jovial twinkle in his eyes now, simply sorrow and worry.

Minerva could not reply. No words could describe her grief, her sorrow, her anger in that moment in time. She was beyond speech, beyond everything. She could feel the warm flame of hope that had been burning brightly within her slowly dying, and it made her physically shiver to think of it.

"Minerva?" Albus ventured gently. His voice had the same effect as a reassuring pat on the shoulder would have done, and finally, the witch pulled herself together crossly.

"Albus," she said weakly, wishing that she could put more power behind her voice but still feeling faint whenever she thought back to the revelations that she had just borne witness to. "What happens now?"

"The quest continues," said Albus firmly. "It has already been set in motion. But Minerva, I need you to carry on where I can no longer tread. You will realise, surely, what I am going to ask of you?"

Minerva nodded. She had to speak to Severus Snape, to re-establish that tenuous link between the Dark and the Order. It was an onerous responsibility, and one that only she, possessing of the truth as she was, could perform.

"Before I died I arranged for Severus to meet you at the old trading point tonight at nine o'clock." Albus paused. "Minerva, I am so very sorry that it has come to this, and I regret not telling you before, I truly do."

Minerva shook her head.

"It doesn't matter, Albus," she said. "What's done is done. We cannot change the past, only use it to shape the future." She looked up at the clock on the wall; it was almost a quarter to nine already, and there were still things to be done. "I had better be going."

"Good luck, Minerva," said Albus sadly. "And remember why it is imperative that both Severus Snape and Harry Potter return to Hogwarts in September. This is the only place where we can truly protect them both."

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**Note3: **And there was I, saying I was done with the HP fandom and I wasn't going to write anything in it again. Open mouth, insert foot. And why do I always start posting when I'm in the middle of being stressed? I finished the plot yesterday and I was so happy I decided to post… *Kimmeth sighs.* Ok, I'll get on lest the notes become longer than the thing itself…

I sincerely hope you enjoyed this beginning, and all being well, I intend to update once a week.


	2. The Spine of Society

**Note: **I forgot to say it before, but I need to thank my friend and muse **NextChristineDaae**, who gave me the encouragement I needed to start writing this properly, and who came up with the 'decorative but ultimately useless wall-hanging' line in the previous chapter.

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**Chapter Two**

**The Spine of Society**

It had long since been accepted that there were three very separate institutions that made up what was considered to be the backbone of wizarding society. As long as these three institutions held, wizards and witches everywhere could rest a little easier in their troubled beds, knowing that however torn and tattered, however bruised they may be, the spine of society held strong against the malevolent forces that threatened it without relent. For the duration of the first war, these three institutions had held, however shakily. This time, the Dark Lord was determined. In order to succeed, in order to bring his world to heel, first it must be paralysed, and to that end, he would break its back. With the crux of society destroyed, so would power be so much easier to gain. The concept of divide and conquer was a simple one, its simplicity contributing much to its efficacy. The Dark Lord had told Severus this when he had told him of his plans to cripple the upstanding institutions for good.

These three institutions were the Ministry of Magic, Azkaban Prison, and Hogwarts School of Witchcraft and Wizardry, and their destruction was already progressing remarkably quickly. Far too quickly, thought Severus as he apparated into the dark streets of the capital and hurried through the milling muggle theatre crowds to the place where Dumbledore had told him to await Minerva. Their grand plans had been brought forward by two days, and as such he had very little time for this brief interview. He did not like to think of the consequences if he was missed on this night of all nights. Oh yes, the collapse of the backbone of wizarding society was already progressing remarkably quickly. The dementors had deserted Azkaban. The Ministry was so awash with those who were not what they seemed that it would only be a matter of time before the head was cut off and the body floundered uselessly without it. And Hogwarts… Well, Severus had seen to it personally that the very infrastructure of the venerated establishment was ruptured beyond repair. His fingers curled around his wand in his pocket unconsciously. He could still see the events of that fateful night as clearly as the time at which they had occurred. Certainly he had known for a long time of the inevitability of this deed, but that had not made it any less difficult when the time had finally come. He still wondered if his courage would have failed him if it had not been for Dumbledore's pleading words. _Severus, please_. He shook his head angrily and put the chilling memory out of his mind. It would not do to brood on the past when the present and the future were so much more pressing concerns. Not, of course, that the present and the future were any happier destinations for his thoughts. Again, he found his mind toying with the concept of the spine of wizarding society. He dreaded to think of what would happen once it was completely broken. When the Dark Lord was in control of the three venerated institutions, then there would be complete anarchy. Severus shook his head. How could this deranged wizard claim that those with magic were so much superior to their muggle cousins when their society had regressed pitifully into a bloodthirsty and lawless state? Then again, the Dark Lord would not see this as a breakdown of society. For him, it would be but a momentary lapse, as one established order gave way to another – his. What were a few years of darkness when one could theoretically live forever? Let the infighting and the terror flush out the undesirables, the Dark Lord had said, and then build a new empire from the ruins of the old. How many great leaders had done that in the past? Severus thought of Grindelwald, of muggle dictators. They had all held similar ideals, but their efforts had, in the end, been for nothing. He could only hope that the same ultimate failure would befall the Dark Lord.

He shook his head, the action seeming to leave his mind blissfully blank, and focussed on his eventual destination, the lights of Tower Bridge seeming to mock him as they twinkled through the dementors' mist. In the height of the first war, when he had first started to spy for the Order, this had often been the place in which he would meet Dumbledore to trade information: in the middle of a densely populated muggle area, so that neither party would be as likely to resort to offensive magic, however much they might have been inclined to do so in anger or mistrust. The symbolism of using a bridge was not lost on Severus. Just as the Cold War's muggle spies used to swap their information at the Glienecke, so they used the Tower. Bridges were a sign of connection, communication, linking two sides together. As a spy, Severus was truly the link between two opposite sides, answering to two opposing masters, but only he could judge when the illusion must be kept up and when he could let his true feelings and thoughts be known. More often than not, Severus found it easier to remain guarded at all times, to never let a weak link show for fear of the consequences. After all, one was fully aware of what would happen if Tower Bridge were weakened. The entire structure would come crashing down, destroyed, and the two sides of the river would be completely separated, unable to communicate, and second-guessing each other's decisions. The casualties would not be limited to the bridge itself, and that was why being a spy was such a dangerous and harrowing occupation. It was not just his own life at risk should he be uncovered, Severus had realised this long ago. Innocents on both sides counted on his deception for their wellbeing. It was onerous and often thankless task; never fully trusted by either side.

As he drew closer, he could see Minerva's form in the shadows, waiting stiff and upright but constantly alert, her eyes constantly moving, never leaving a spot unguarded for more than a few seconds. Her fingers were white where they clutched her wand, hidden in the folds of her cloak as the thin piece of wood was, the skin pulled so tightly over her knuckles that the bones looked to be in danger of bursting through. He wondered idly if the muggles thought that there was anything suspicious about them; about their slightly odd appearances. On the face of it, they fitted in well with the evening dress that was seen at this time of night more than any other, and of course, it was always said that in the capital one could get away with anything. Only in London could a witch or wizard walk around in their traditional robes in broad daylight and not be declared certifiable.

"Minerva," he said as he approached her. "Shall we walk?"

"Severus," she greeted in reply, her voice seeming to be unable to make up her mind whether she trusted the former potions teacher or not. "That would be most agreeable." Severus did not break his stride as they stepped onto the bridge but Minerva settled into his pace comfortably. "In these times no-one feels comfortable remaining outside in one place for long." It was the story of their lives; always keep moving to avoid detection. A sad reminder of what a once safe community had become in a little over two years. The change was both chilling and awe-inspiring, and it was telling that even the muggles had noticed it. The general unease that had swept over the country was clear to see in the way that the people walked; their eyes were cast down, focussing fully on their destinations. They didn't loiter, they did not stroll leisurely along the bridge. They hurried, anxious to return to the safety of their homes and various other institutions. They knew that it was not safe to remain outside for long; although of course they did not know the reason for their unease. It was remarkable how the muggles seemed to react to the events of the wizarding world unconsciously, always finding plausible excuses for the inexplicable. Sometimes it was easy to forget that the magicians shared their realm with the non-magicians, and that they were undeniably interlinked, no matter how much the Dark Lord and his followers wished it otherwise.

"I don't see why we could not have held this meeting at the castle," Severus admitted, "but since in all probability, we are both being watched, perhaps it is more prudent to meet on neutral territory, so to speak."

Minerva nodded, but she said nothing more. Dumbledore had been the one to arrange this rendezvous, but he had not given any indication as to its purpose other than for the two people in the world who knew the truth about his death to meet and acknowledge that they were in understanding with each other.

"I take it that you now know the full story?" he ventured, although he did not know why he did so. Minerva would not be here if she had not received the package that Dumbledore had said that he would bequeath her after he died. It would be ridiculous indeed if the former headmaster had ordered them to meet on unequal terms. Minerva nodded again before speaking quietly.

"It seems that there had been a lot going on at Hogwarts in this last year that I have not been party to." Her perfectly calm demeanour intrigued Severus.

"You're angry?"

"Only with myself, for not noticing everything. For not noticing anything. Oh, I had my suspicions, of course I did, but I was so preoccupied…" She stopped abruptly, standing still in the centre of the bridge and nearly causing a muggle couple to walk into her. "Severus, Albus needs you to return to Hogwarts in September."

Severus nodded. He already knew as much, and he was already, indirectly, forming a plan.

"He says it is imperative and I agree with him," Minerva continued, her voice worried. "The problem is that I have no idea how we can make it work in your favour. When the entire school is under the impression that you murdered their headmaster in cold blood, and only you, I and the portraits in the head's office are in possession of the truth… I can foresee some doubts as to my sanity if I allow you to continue to teach Defence against the Dark Arts."

Severus looked at Minerva, lamenting the fact that she, like Dumbledore, had aged quickly under the pressure of this interminable war. There was more than a little grey speckling her black hair, and her brow seemed to be permanently furrowed under the weight of the troubles she had undertaken in the wake of Dumbledore's demise. He knew how much she had been burdened with; both the headship of a school that was rapidly succumbing to its wounds, and the masterminding of what at times appeared to be the entire resistance. But Severus also knew Minerva McGonagall, and he knew that if anyone could salvage hope from the ashes, then it was her. He did not want to have to tell her the inevitable bad news; bad news that he knew, in the end, would solve the problem that she had just mentioned. He only hoped that the old adage 'forewarned is forearmed' rang true. It was just a shame that her preparations could not extend beyond her own mind; beyond what she alone could organise surreptitiously. The terrible and hindering secrecy that was required nevertheless protected both of them equally – Minerva would not have to reveal the source of her information to her allies and risk being ostracised for her continued association with a man who currently embodied everything that the Order was fighting against, and Severus would not be suspected of leaking those same facts to the Dark Lord's enemies.

"Minerva, I am about to tell you something that I hope you will be able to use to your advantage, but I am afraid that it can go no further. If it is discovered that you possess this knowledge, then the rat will be hounded out."

Minerva's lips pressed together into a thin line, as if she was once again unsure of her gut instincts towards this man. On the face of it, she knew that she had absolutely no reason to distrust him, and yet there were some habits that died harder than others, wariness around spies being one of them. It was difficult, Severus knew, to cope with having one's worldview completely turned upside down, and he did not begrudge her the moment of indecision.

"I would have thought that your actions in the past few weeks would have placed you above suspicion," she said coolly.

"Hardly. Not when someone has doubtless witnessed this conversation. Trust is like the moon, Minerva. It waxes and wanes and is never the same two nights together. And you do know what they say: keep your friends close and your enemies even closer." Severus snorted. "Perhaps that's why Dumbledore kept such a watchful eye on me."

"No, Albus always trusted you," said Minerva. "He trusted you implicitly."

The former potions master opened his mouth to reply to this but a familiar burning sensation on the inside of his forearm caused him to close it again. It was time. Minerva noticed his grimace.

"You should heed the call," she said drily, knowing what had just occurred. "No doubt we shall speak again before long."

Severus could only hope that would be the case.

"Minerva…" He was anxious to finish saying what needed to be said, to lay the situation in the open as soon as possible lest their next meeting not take place, so that Minerva could use the information in the way that he hoped she would. "Minerva, Azkaban falls to the Dark Lord tonight. The Ministry will not take long to follow, and once that happens…"

Minerva nodded her understanding, and Severus was certain from the expression in her sharp eyes that she had picked up on the veiled message within the words. The new headmistress's grimly pale face haunted him as he disapparated, unable to ignore the call any longer.

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**Note2: ** And what is the implied meaning behind the words? Ah, all will be revealed...

(Bonus points to any reviewers who can pick up on my reference to the fact I study Germany and will happily bring it into everything I write...)


	3. The First to Fall

**Note: **Ok, two updates in one week. I bowed to peer pressure. *Glares at NCD and Amy.* This is NOT going to be a regular occurrence, but hey, I was excited about this chapter too.

**Note2: **I'm sorry, I have to do this. *Affects tune of Cliff Richard's 'Summer Holiday'.* # We're all going on an, evening jailbreak…#

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**Chapter Three**

**The First to Fall**

As soon as Severus had reached his destination, all thoughts of Minerva and the foreboding task ahead of her had to vanish. He was so used to this process of becoming a blank slate that he did it without a second thought, an instinctive reaction to the call. He felt as if he truly became a different person in the presence of the Dark Lord, accessed a different part of his psyche, one that he had no desire to live in on a regular basis. At the time, it seemed the most natural thing in the world, but once he came away from the malignity, and he felt the blackness begin to ebb away, the split to his personality made him shiver.

"You're late, Severus." The cold voice came from his left, and Severus turned to face his pseudo-master. The Dark Lord was not looking at him, instead staring out into the middle distance, where the ever-present thunders of Azkaban roared with an even greater violence than the spy had ever known. The powerful magic that protected that formidable fortress had been broken down, and the fury of the storm was out in the open for all to witness. A flash of forked lightning on the horizon lit up the Dark Lord's pale visage, which seemed to smile imperceptibly at the thought of the carnage that was being wreaked by his command but not by his hand. Severus wondered idly if the lightning had been caused by a natural electrical storm or the wand of a colleague.

"There were certain matters I could not leave unattended, my Lord."

"Was Minerva McGonagall amongst these matters, Severus?"

The Dark Lord's tone was conversational, but the former potions master had long since learned to divine the bristling undercurrent of danger in the words.

"She has taken Dumbledore's place as the figurehead of both Hogwarts and the Order," he replied levelly. "Naturally, I assumed that it would be in my best interests to ingratiate myself with her to the same end as I did with the former headmaster. If, of course, you would prefer it for me to sever my ties with the school completely, I will not hesitate to do so."

The Dark Lord stood in contemplation for a long time, perfectly still, his twisted, inhuman face completely unreadable.

"No, Severus, I believe this is the right course of action. We have so many hands within the ministry already, and it seems such a shame for us to lose such an important one within the final bone of the spine. If Minerva McGonagall is anything like her predecessor, then Hogwarts will prove the toughest of the three to crack. Your presence, your trusted presence, will be an asset." The Dark Lord's face became thoughtful. "Of course, once the Ministry is ours, it will naturally be within our power to deal with her on a purely bureaucratic level…"

"Whatever you wish, my Lord." Severus did not, at that point in time, care for how he got back to Hogwarts, just as long as he did so, in accordance not with Dumbledore's wishes, but with Minerva's. He knew that once the Ministry fell, his return was guaranteed. No-one would fight a decree of the new governmental order. If Severus Snape was to return to Hogwarts, then it would happen without a doubt.

"I am curious, however, as to how you managed to assure her of your continued trustworthiness in light of what happened atop the highest tower that fateful night."

Severus looked into the Dark Lord's politely questioning eyes. He had known that the question would arise and he had already prepared an explanation. After all, a very good excuse was needed for resuming peaceful contact with someone whom, in light of his past deeds, should want to kill him on sight.

"She is under the impression that Dumbledore was cursed; as good as dead already. In a twisted way it was mercy that I provided, not murder."

The irony of the fact that this supposed lie was in fact the truth, and that Minerva knew it was the truth from Dumbledore's own mind, was not lost on Severus, but the Dark Lord did not need to know that. Let him think that Severus was merely an adept liar who could make what appeared, on the surface, to be a farfetched story, utterly believable. Let him think that Minerva was so gullible as to accept the tale. On the other hand, if the Dark Lord knew how good a liar he was, then Severus might be suspected of lying to him… It was a risk he had to take.

The Dark Lord, seemingly satisfied by this brief explanation – Severus had learned that the briefer and simpler the explanation, the greater the likelihood of its being believed – turned back in the direction of Azkaban as a particularly brilliant flash of green light shot across the horizon, leaving spots dancing in front of Severus's eyes. He wasn't sure, but he would bet highly that he had heard Bellatrix's mad cackle even at this distance.

"Your comrades appear to be taking everything in hand very nicely," said the Dark Lord, as nonchalantly as if he was stating the weather. "I believe, however, that there is still work to be done if you would care to join them." It was an order, not a suggestion, and Severus said nothing in reply, merely disapparating towards the invisible island from which so much magical turbulence was emanating.

Azkaban was in ruins. There could be no other way to describe the twisted, mutilated mass of enchanted stone that had once been the west wing. As Severus landed in the dust and rubble, mixed into slimy mud in the incessant rain and roaring waves, he caught an all-too-familiar voice on the wind next to him.

"So glad you could join us, Severus," drawled Bellatrix. "Finally decided you would look in on our little operation?"

"I was detained by the Dark Lord," said Severus coolly. Bellatrix merely sniffed disapprovingly and turned to her next unfortunate victim. From the bodies scattered over the crumbled remains of the wing, there could not be many humans who were not inmates left on the island for her to kill, but she had still managed to find one, a grey-haired, middle-aged administration witch, trembling in the magical grasp of Bella's spell, her feet a metre and a half above the ground, flailing wildly. For a moment, Severus pitied those drafted in to guard Azkaban in the wake of the Dementors' desertion. Everyone knew that it would only be a matter of time before the Dark Lord returned to Azkaban to collect his own, and these helpless witches and wizards knew that they would be the first victims of his efforts in that respect.

"I remember you," the younger woman said conversationally. "You were the one who filled in all my paperwork before I was sent for my little _soirée_ here."

"Please," gasped the shaking woman. "Please don't kill me."

Bellatrix smiled, almost pleasantly.

"Sorry," she said. "Perhaps another time?" She squeezed the fingers of her wandless hand and with a sickening crack, the witch fell lifeless into the sludge, her neck evidently broken. Severus could not suppress a shudder of revulsion.

"Shouldn't you be assisting in the jailbreak instead of killing the unnecessary for sport?"

Bellatrix glowered at him.

"There are only so many required to blast a few of our compatriots out of their cells, Severus, and naturally someone has to stay behind to ensure that our escape route is clear." She paused and a malicious smile spread over her lips. "Speaking of those required, I seem to believe that Rowle has been taking an awfully long time in his set task. Perhaps you would care to assist him therein?"

Severus needed no further excuse to leave Bellatrix's toxic presence, and he apparated into the main administrative centre of the prison, where the prisoners' files were kept. Rowle had been tasked with obliterating the records; of wiping the slate clean for the next stage of Azkaban's life and usage – at the beck and call of the Dark Lord for whomsoever he saw fit to incarcerate under the new regime. As he appeared there, Severus felt a pang of sympathy for Rowle. His was an interesting history, and suffice it to say that he was not the most enthusiastic of their corps. He had learned quickly that to survive in this dangerous game, obedience and subservience were key, and he had adhered to this lesson well. As long as he kept out of sight, he kept himself nicely out of the firing line. It had not surprised Severus in the slightest to learn that Rowle had volunteered himself for that boring task that most of their bloodthirsty compadres would baulk at.

As he materialised, however, he saw that Rowle's hopes for a quiet life had been unfortunately dashed by the file-keeper, a young man whom Rowle was now duelling spectacularly in the centre of the foreboding record-room. It was ironic that this fight, fought ostensibly to protect the administrative hub, should be destroying it so thoroughly. It was clear, however, that Rowle was not going to win such an evenly matched bout in a hurry, and time was wearing away. Severus cast a simple stunning spell to the unprotected back of the file-keeper's head, and he fell to the ground with a thud. Rowle looked up and nodded his thanks, too winded from his battle to speak. Together they made short work of the remaining folders, watching as the names of their colleagues went up in a glittering fireball. Their task was over, and it was time for them to join the main event, as belated as they might be. The two Death Eaters ventured out of the record-room and into the main prison, and they immediately took a step back to avoid having their eyes gouged out with flying wands. The Carrow siblings were working their way down the corridor, blasting each of the doors a few times until the charmed hinges finally gave out and released their colleagues before moving on to the next. The wands, clutched tightly in Alecto's grubby fist, had been collected from their various places of safety over the past few days and were enchanted to return to their owners of their own accord, a sort of pseudo-summoning charm, but Alecto's inherent lack of delicacy meant that the wizard in question would often have to grab his wand as it went sailing past him at ear level. Severus was sorely tempted to clap his hands over his ears at the incessant noise – the Carrows had a reputation for being as loud as physically possible when it came to destroying things – but Amycus caught his eye.

"Still a couple above us," he said, displaying a gap-toothed grin as the latest door splintered into pieces under a particularly vehement curse. Severus sighed and disappeared again, knowing without a doubt that he would be able to break his colleagues out of their confinement with the minimum of destruction, the minimum of noise and the minimum of timewasting. The first thing that met his ears when he rematerialised on the floor above the wanton blasting, however, was a guttural and ear-wrenching howl.

"WILL SOMEONE GET ME OUT OF HERE?"

Severus rolled his eyes. Dolohov had never been renowned for his ability to wait.

"Patience, Antonin, patience."

"Severus, I've been rotting in here for a year! Don't talk to me about patience," growled the man from within his cell. "After spending sixteen years of my life in this hellhole I was hoping not to have to see it again!"

By the time his angry speech was finished, the two men were standing face to face. Severus smiled benignly at his colleague.

"I believe Alecto Carrow has your wand on the floor below us."

Dolohov swore in Polish before making his way past Snape and into the corridor, muttering.

"I'd better rescue it. Which idiot trusted that harpy with my wand?"

"That would be your remarkably patient wife, Dolohov," Severus called after him before moving on to the next cell and its blessedly quieter occupant.

Lucius Malfoy's time in Azkaban had done him no favours.

"Severus. Thank Merlin." That was all the man said as he stepped out of his confines, and together they made their way back towards the Carrows. The roar from outside the fortress seemed to be lessening, and halfway to their destination, Severus had to duck to avoid being smacked in the face by Lucius's wand. They were to be the last to leave, and the last to arrive back at the Dark Lord's side.

"At last," said the voice that Severus knew too well. "Our ranks are complete once more, apart from a few necessary absences…"

The Dark Lord tailed off as a shape materialised into being beside him, a shape that should ostensibly have been one of the absences.

"He's getting away!" panted their comrade, his voice half-hysterical with anger. "Potter's getting away!"

Unseen by the Dark Lord, Severus allowed himself a fleeting smile of satisfaction. Minerva _had_ picked up on the hidden meaning in his words. If the Death Eaters were collating their energies on the jailbreak, then there would not be as much attention focussed on Potter and his movements. Minerva could use the momentary lapse in security to get him to safety, and from the sound of his colleague's exasperation, she had risen to the occasion admirably. He paid little heed to the Dark Lord's barked orders, sending various people here and there and the sheer wrath in his voice getting higher and higher with each word. Eventually he seemed to calm, satisfied that he had expended enough manpower to capture Potter, and he surveyed those who were left, mainly those who had just been so newly liberated. His scarlet eyes finally alighted on Lucius.

"Lucius… We have not had the chance to speak since your little _escapade_ at the Department of Mysteries…"

Beside him, Severus felt Lucius give a deep sigh. They both knew what was coming. Unseen by their master, Severus found Lucius's wrist in the darkness and gave it a brief squeeze, a momentary reassurance. It was often underestimated, thought Severus, but the calming effect of the human touch was a magic more powerful than any that could be cast with a wand. The former potions master closed his eyes and wished he could do the same for his ears, focussing his energies on anything but listening to the choked screams of his once so-proud friend. He thought of Azkaban, lying in ruins and littered with the bodies of its guardians. The first bone of the spine had been broken. The first institution had fallen. How long would it be before the others followed suit?

At length, there was silence, and Severus opened his eyes to find himself alone with Lucius, who was trying and failing to pick himself up from the shingle on which they stood. Without a word, Severus took one arm around his shoulders and hauled the other man to his feet.

"I wish I were dead," Lucius mumbled.

"Don't tempt fate, _tovarisch_," muttered Severus. But then there was nothing more to be said, and he disapparated, ready to reunite Narcissa Malfoy with her broken husband.

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**Note3: ** I did warn you at the beginning that I have something of a worrying affinity with the DE's. We'll be back with Minerva in the next chapter. In the meantime, does anyone feel like leaving a review?

**Note4: **_tavarech_ now corrected to _tovarisch_. Ta NCD :)


	4. A Farewell to Normality

**Note: **You lucky, lucky people. Two chapters for the price of one. Well, Mhd was making me stressed so I thought what the hell. I battled through a dodgy net connection to bring you this Monday update, be proud!

**Note on the previous chapter: **Yes, tovarisch is Russian for comrade. (Or, interestingly enough, bedfellow, as we discovered to our great mirth.) As to why Severus can speak it… Other than the reason I like giving magical characters wholly non-magical talents, well, I'll hopefully think of one and work it in later. The little brain's already a-whirring!

Ok, we're slowing down a bit now but hopefully we'll be back to exciting stuff in the next couple of chapters!

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**Chapter Four**

**A Farewell to Normality**

Vernon Dursley had not been anticipating a ring of the doorbell at half-past ten at night, and this made him nervous as he moved through the house to answer it. Not, of course, that Vernon would ever admit to being nervous within the four walls of which he was Lord and Master, but ever since the… (Vernon would barely bring himself to think it) _wizard_ had visited last summer and explained the depths of despair that _their lot_ were sinking into, well, Vernon had been a little uneasy. He sighed. It was all Petunia's sister's fault. If they had never taken in her son then there would be no reason for him and his family to be jumping at shadows, afraid to leave their own home thanks to forces that they were unable and unwilling to understand. But there was no use in dwelling on past decisions, irreversible as they were. The doorbell had just rung for the second time with a shrill, sharp urgency that demanded attention. Vernon took a deep breath and opened the door. For a brief moment, he thought he had been the victim of a schoolboy-esque prank; there was no-one to be seen outside the house. It was then that Vernon looked down at the doorstep, into the cool and stern green eyes of a horribly familiar tabby cat.

Vernon did not know why the cat was so instantly recognisable, nor why he should feel a cold sense of dread associated with its presence, but then he remembered. The first, and indeed only, time that he had seen this cat was the day before Harry had been left on their doorstep. It had been reading a map on the corner of Privet Drive, and later it had stationed itself on the garden wall. It was definitely the same cat, even sixteen years later he recognised the strange square markings round its eyes, like spectacles almost. This cat was most certainly a harbinger of bad news. But who had rung the doorbell? Surely not the cat. Whilst it was, of course, physically possible for the cat to have climbed up the creeper beside the door and pressed the bell, Vernon was of the firm belief that cats did not possess the intelligence required to ring doorbells in order to attract the attention of the householder. They just yowled, didn't they? The cat on the doorstep was showing no signs of yowling; in fact it was so eerily silent that it gave the impression that yowling was wholly beneath it. It simply stared at him with clever, unblinking eyes.

"Who is it Vernon?"

Petunia's voice from upstairs pulled Vernon from his thoughts, forcing him to focus on the problem at hand.

"It's…" he began, but then he trailed off weakly. He couldn't very well say 'it's a cat', could he? The tabby appeared to give a sigh of impatience, and flicked its tail towards the open door behind him. It was not going to move until he let it into the house; that much was obvious.

"Vernon?" Petunia pressed. Vernon heard movement from the rest of the house, and he knew that if he looked behind him he would see Dudley and Petunia's faces peering over the banisters. He met the cat's gaze once more.

"Oh, go on then," he muttered, finally giving in. He stood back and let the cat into the house. When he turned to face the creature, having locked and bolted the door firmly, he jumped about three feet into the air in shock. Where a small tabby cat should have been, there stood a middle-aged woman wearing long, emerald green robes and the same square spectacles as the cat had had. On the landing, Petunia gave a muted shriek and Dudley began to sidle back towards his room as surreptitiously as he could. Vernon, realising that he had just let one of _those_ into his house without knowing, and being unsure whether this pseudo-Catwoman was friend or foe, panicked.

"I'm warning you, Catwoman!" he cried, scrabbling about in the darkness for a suitable weapon and coming up with the empty umbrella stand. "I'm armed!"

"Hardly, Mr Dursley," said the witch matter-of-factly. "But there is no cause to be alarmed. My name is Min…"

"Professor McGonagall?"

Harry had appeared at the top of the stairs, no doubt alerted by the noises from the other occupants of the house.

"What are you doing here?"

"There's been a change of plan," Professor McGonagall said shortly, before turning back to Vernon. "As Mr Potter said, I am Professor Minerva McGonagall, acting head of Hogwarts." She paused. "I take it, Mr Dursley, that you are aware of the situation as regards your protection?"

Vernon's blood ran cold. Ever since Harry had returned for his final summer at Privet Drive, and he had explained the dire straits that _their_ world had been plunged into, Vernon had been in two minds. On the one hand, he was half-convinced that it was all an elaborate and sinister hoax designed to cheat him out of his home and livelihood. On the other, the verity with which the boy had spoken as he tried to explain… Vernon, despite all his shortcomings, loved his family, and he would do whatever was in his power to protect them as long as his courage didn't fail him at the last minute, as it so often did. He nodded slowly to the witch.

"Unforseen circumstances mean that we are going to have to bring the date of your departure forward by a few days," she continued.

Vernon's heart was not getting any lighter.

"W-w-when?" he finally managed to choke out.

"My colleague, Miss Jones, will be here in ten minutes," said Professor McGonagall. "How soon can you be ready to leave?"

Vernon dropped the umbrella stand. He had been expecting at least a day's notice, not a few minutes.

"Petunia," he called up the stairs.

"I heard, Vernon." His wife paused. "The suitcases are packed."

Vernon breathed a sigh of relief. In his indecision, they were constantly switching between packing and unpacking the suitcases, performing this task several times a day. To be fair, it was mainly he who unpacked and Petunia who worriedly repacked. His wife, being slightly more experienced in magical matters than he thanks to her sister, was taking the whole thing far more seriously than he was, and it was only now that Vernon thought it might just be profitable to pay attention to her fears.

"In that case, all we need do is wait for Hestia," Professor McGonagall's expression did not soften as she continued to speak. "I can assure you that you will be in very capable hands. Hestia has been in the Office for Necessary Muggle Liaison for many years."

"The what?" asked Vernon weakly.

"The Office for Necessary… Oh, it's not important right now," said the professor. She looked Vernon up and down. "Perhaps you'd like to get dressed before you leave?"

It was only then that Vernon remembered that he was wearing his pyjamas, and he took the witch up on her suggestion, returning upstairs to the bedroom.

"Professor McGonagall," he heard Harry saying as he passed him on the landing, "what's going on?"

Vernon was not altogether sure that he wanted to hear the answer. He had long since worked comfortably on the principle that ignorance is bliss, and even now, in these most uncertain of circumstances, a small part of him was longing to remain with that mindset. What you don't know can't hurt you, at least that was what Vernon had always thought. Thankfully, Professor McGonagall's answer did nothing to disturb him any further.

"All in good time, Potter. I shall explain fully once your relations are safely away with Hestia."

Vernon breathed an inward sigh of relief. When he entered the bedroom, he found that Petunia was already fully-dressed and was flitting around the room, taking things out of the near-bursting suitcase on the bed, replacing them with other things and then shaking her head and deciding she had it right before, starting the entire process again. She was muttering to herself, and although Vernon couldn't tell what she was saying, he had a very good idea.

"Petunia," he began nervously as he reached into the depths of the suitcase to find a pair of socks, "is everything alright?"

He had expected a sharp and sarcastic retort, in-keeping with the caustic nature that Petunia always retained when 'odd' things happened to them, so he was surprised by the reaction that he received.

"Oh Vernon," she whispered, and as her frantic hands came to rest on the lid of the case, he saw that they were shaking violently. "I'm scared, Vernon."

Vernon Dursley was not a man to admit fear, but the angst in his wife's eyes was boring into him. If he lied now, she would know. He swallowed.

"So am I," he admitted. "But…"

"I'm even scared for Harry," said Petunia with a weak laugh. "How ridiculous. I've spent all these years just wishing to be rid of him and now the time has come…" She shook her head. "What if it was Dudley, Vernon? He's no older than Dudley and he's on the frontline of a war. Imagine if it was Dudley…"

Vernon didn't want to. His mind was flooded with images of Dudley on the beaches at Normandy, engaged in aerial dogfights, sinking in a depth-charged submarine. He had never held any intention for Dudley to join the armed forces, and now he knew why. Dudley in a war, someone of Dudley's age fighting in a war… The idea was made even more terrifying by the inherent unknown quality that… _magic…_ had about it. All of a sudden their lives were being controlled by something that was far, far bigger than they were, and it was this, as well as the horrific battlefield images, that made Vernon so fearful.

At that point, Petunia pulled herself out of her moment of weakness and continued her last-minute alterations. They were just manhandling the suitcases down the stairs when they heard a car pull up in the street outside.

"Right on time," said Professor McGonagall, although Vernon could see no evidence of a watch or another timepiece on her person. He grunted, the old fear of the unknown settling heavily in his limbs. He tried to mask it.

"Don't suppose you could wave your magic wand and make this lighter?" he said to the witch, receiving a politely amused look in return.

"I'm afraid not, Mr Dursley," she said. "You see, magic always leaves a trace, and since Mr Potter is under seventeen, any magic used in his proximity is watched even more closely. Besides," she paused and her face became stern once more, "we don't want to draw attention to ourselves any more than necessary."

Vernon thought that this was a bit odd coming from the woman who had turned into a cat in order to gain entry into their home, but uncharacteristically, he remained silent as he bumped the suitcase down the final three steps. The doorbell rang on cue, and Professor McGonagall answered it.

"Hello Minerva, hi Harry. Everything ready?" asked the newest arrival. The older witch nodded and moved aside to allow Vernon his first glimpse of Hestia Jones. She was small and plump with chin length black hair, and thankfully she wasn't wearing ridiculous robes. However, despite the fact that he had never seen her before, there was something about her appearance that made her generic black coat and skirt look completely out of place. It was as if the Dalai Lama had just walked down the street wearing jeans and a Che Guevara T-shirt.

"Mr Dursley I presume?" she said, taking his hand and pumping it up and down with vigour. "I'm Hestia Jones, nice to meet you."

Vernon couldn't say anything in return. Presently, the little witch smiled, a genuine, genial smile, and Vernon decided that although he would never trust these other folks as far as he could throw them, perhaps this Hestia Jones was not going to be all bad.

"We'll be taking your car, if that's alright by you," she continued. "Mine is, well…" She broke off abruptly, as if she had said too much. "Well, that's by the by." She finished, and she looked the Dursleys and their suitcases up and down. "All ready for the off?" she asked brightly. "I'll let you say your goodbyes then. Minerva, could I borrow you for a moment please?"

Hestia hopped into the house and she and the professor adjourned to the kitchen. Vernon noticed that they didn't put the light on. He turned back to face Harry.

"Well," said the boy. "I guess this is it."

Vernon was a man who prided himself on being able to expound on any number of topics to fill an awkward silence, but for once in his life, he had absolutely no idea what to say. This was going to be the last time that he saw his nephew, a boy that, however grudgingly, had been a part of his life for the past sixteen years. Who knew whether this time next year he would be alive or not? Vernon thought of the times in which he had wished and prayed for this day to come, of everything that had happened in the past sixteen years thanks to Harry, but now… There were so many things that he could say, but none of them seemed right. None of them seemed sincere. None of them could convey his true feelings, because he had no idea what those were himself. So he settled for something simple, something neutral that could not be misconstrued.

"Goodbye," he said, somewhat gruffer than he had expected, the rest of the family echoing his words.

"Bye," said Harry in reply. He too looked awkward, as if there was something more that ought to be said, but no-one was prepared to take the plunge and say it. They remained in the uncomfortable silence until the witches returned, perfect timing. Vernon strongly suspected that they had been eavesdropping in the dark kitchen.

"All ready?" asked Hestia, her bright tone horribly false in the dour hallway. "Good, good." She dropped a clutch of keys into Professor McGonagall's open palm. "Remember what I said Minerva, I don't want to have to explain the inexplicable to Arthur and Charity."

If the professor was as confused by this statement as Vernon was, then she didn't show it. The six people stood in the hallway for a moment before Hestia seemed to decide that action was necessary and she stepped out of the front door.

"Bye Minerva, Harry," she said. "Hopefully we'll speak soon."

The merry light had gone from her eyes, and now she simply looked worried. Vernon took a deep breath and followed her out into the night. No-one spoke as they loaded the suitcases into the boot and got into their seats. Hestia climbed into the back of the car beside Dudley, who accepted this without a word, but this didn't stop him from casting nervous glances askance at the little witch every few seconds. Vernon slipped the key into the ignition and paused before turning it, looking to Petunia for reassurance. For the Dursleys, who were perfectly normal thank you very much, the idea of performing a moonlight flit from Privet Drive, where tongues would wag about their disappearance for at least three months, was nigh on unthinkable. Vernon was on the verge of unloading the cases and running back into the house, bolting the door behind them. Then Petunia patted his shoulder and gave him a smile that did not quite reach her eyes, but it was enough. Vernon started the engine and backed out of the driveway. None of the curtains in Privet Drive twitched as they passed. Hestia was staring out of the side window intently, and finally a satisfied expression came over her face as they reached the end of the street.

"Left," she said simply, and continued her lookout.

As he turned, Vernon looked back at number four, still in darkness with a nondescript black hatchback parked outside. He couldn't risk becoming sentimental, he was a grown man for heaven's sakes, but there was a pang of nostalgia that he felt on realising that for the foreseeable future, he was not coming back to his home. Perhaps he'd never see it again; he didn't know. Such was the uncertainty of their life. They turned the corner fully and the house disappeared from view.

"Well," he said, desperate to fill the silence that enveloped the car. "That's that."

He glanced at Dudley in the rear-view mirror, and then at Petunia beside him. Their expressions were identical – pensive and worried. They had no idea where they were going, and even less idea what might await them when they arrived at their unknown destination, but they were on their way and there was nothing more to be done. Somewhat inevitably, Vernon found his thoughts drifting back to the place that they had just left, and the boy that they had left in it. He thought of Harry, and he wondered what his nephew was going to do now.

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**Note2: **Ok, I'll admit here and now that the Dursleys are not my strongest characters to write, but I hope you enjoyed this little look inside Vernon's head nonetheless. Onwards!


	5. Trunks and Trust

**Note: **The second part of today's double bill. You lucky folks!

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**Chapter Five**

**Trunks and Trust**

Harry watched as the Dursleys' car vanished out of sight at the end of Privet Drive. None of them looked back. He had not expected them to. It was strange; he felt as if he ought to be feeling something at this momentous occasion – after all, his family had been the bane of his existence for as long as he could remember, and he was in all probability never going to see them again. But despite this heady realisation, there was nothing: no happiness, no relief, nothing.

"Are you ready, Harry?" asked Professor McGonagall gently. "It would not do to linger now that the protection has been broken."

Harry started at her words; not only had he been so wrapped up in analysing his own thoughts that he had almost forgotten that she was there, he was certain that this was the first time that the stern headmistress had called him by his first name alone.

"Yes, I, erm, almost…" Harry paused as Professor McGonagall closed the door to number four after looking around the neighbourhood furtively. Harry privately liked to think that in a curtain-twitching street like Privet Drive, any lurking Death Eaters would be spotted fairly quickly, but the maxim of 'one can never be too careful' was a telling one, especially in the middle of a war.

"Professor, why have the plans changed?" he finally finished.

"We like to keep Voldemort on his toes," said Professor McGonagall drily. "We thought that if we changed dates at the last moment; informing only the most necessary people of the change, then there was less chance of Voldemort finding out and launching a full-scale… something or other." She sighed uneasily, and Harry could tell that she was uncomfortable trying to use the terminology of war and fighting. "I'm afraid that a little resistance is likely to be unavoidable; there can be no doubt that you have been under observation for some time now."

Harry nodded his understanding, but there was something in the professor's face that made him think that perhaps there was something else to the story; that she had not told him the full truth. He shrugged inwardly as she gave him a look that, whilst sad, was also expectant. Harry realised that they were still standing in the darkened hallway and he began to make his way up the stairs towards his room, where he had been in the middle of working out what he would and wouldn't require on his journey in search of horcruxes. Professor McGonagall followed, and they stood in awkward silence in the doorway for a while. Harry was horribly aware that his room was in a slight state – well, 'slight' was putting it mildly – and to add insult to injury, there was a pair of underpants hanging off his bedside lamp where he had thrown them earlier in a fit of frustration.

"I think I'll go and keep a lookout downstairs," said the headmistress quickly, and she hurried away. Harry cringed and swept the offending undergarments into his rucksack. He tossed in a couple of things at random, conscious of time slipping away and not really caring what he packed. Just as he was putting the photo album in, there was a soft hooting at his window, announcing Hedwig's return. She flew in, perching on the bed-head. Harry paused, wondering what to do with her. Taking her with him would seem to be an impossibility, but at the same time he could not simply abandon her. Maybe she could go to Hogwarts and live in the owlery there. At least she'd be cared for. Harry sighed, he didn't want to give her up. Hedwig had been one of his first friends in the wizarding world; his first impression that the magical universe into which he had been so abruptly inducted was something real and tangible, rather than something that his mind had created of its own accord having gone half-mad in boredom and desperation.

"Do you need help?" Professor McGonagall had reappeared in the doorway. "I hadn't heard anything for a disproportionately long time and I feared that you had perhaps fallen into your trunk and been swallowed by its contents."

Harry looked at the half-open trunk and then glanced at the clock on the bedside table. He was alarmed to learn that he had been pondering Hedwig's predicament for a good ten minutes. Finally he ushered her into her cage. He would cross that bridge later; now was not the time to make such an important decision, not when time was running out and he was not in the most clear of mindsets. She hooted angrily at being ruffled about as he fastened the door securely, but her protestations fell on deaf ears. Harry picked up the rucksack and turned to face his teacher.

"Ready," he said. Professor McGonagall looked him up and down and raised an eyebrow.

"Were you not planning on taking any courses at Hogwarts next year, Mr Potter?" she asked. "Or perhaps Miss Granger performed a charm on your bag allowing you to transport all your books and school equipment therein?"

Harry looked sheepish, realising that whilst the Order had known, in a roundabout way, of his plans not to return to Hogwarts for his final year, he had not actually got round to informing the head-teacher.

"I, erm…"

"Don't worry, I believe I can put two and two together. Professor Dumbledore did leave me fairly well informed of what you and he had been pursuing during the last year. You were not, in fact, anticipating returning to school at all, were you?"

Harry shook his head.

"You were going to go off on a search for dangerous items of powerful dark magic, no doubt nobly aided and abetted by Miss Granger and Mr Weasley, weren't you?"

Harry nodded, unable to form any sort of words under the professor's stern gaze, and he wished that she didn't possess the uncanny ability to make him feel eleven years old whenever she looked at him disapprovingly. She raised her eyes heavenwards and sighed.

"Potter… Harry… I know how important this is. I admire your courage and the Gryffindor within me would like nothing more than to encourage you on your quest every step of the way. But as an old and experienced adult and the person who is, for the moment, in charge of your well-being, I have to act as killjoy."

Harry opened his mouth to protest but Professor McGonagall held up a hand.

"Now is not the time to argue the issue. We'll discuss it later, once we have safely left this precarious state of limbo. For now though, will you humour me and at least make it look as if you intend on returning to school?"

There was more than pedagogical authority in her words as she spoke; there was also a note of pleading. If Harry went against her wishes now then it would be out of sheer bloody-mindedness alone, rather than any logical reason. They could make an informed decision at a later date; Harry accepted that when he had first made the choice not to return to Hogwarts, and he told his friends of this choice, he had not been in the most lucid frame of mind himself, the events at the top of the tower and funeral having coloured his perception of the world. He had since had time to calm down, to plan and think about the consequences of his actions properly, but he had not exactly used this time productively.

However reluctantly, Harry pulled the trunk into the centre of the room and emptied the rucksack into it, adding his robes on top. Professor McGonagall cast a practised eye over the pile of books in one corner of the room and easily discarded those that wouldn't be necessary, cheerfully tossing them onto the bed with a disregard for order that was wholly unlike her. For a brief moment Harry was convinced that the person in front of him was not actually Professor McGonagall but an imposter, and he was only reassured when he remembered the hysteria that had no doubt accompanied her transformation from feline to human. Harry was fairly certain that a Death Eater under the influence of a glamour or Polyjuice potion would not take on their victim's animagical abilities upon disguise.

"There," she said, placing the books she had kept into the trunk and closing it. "I think we're ready." She looked down at the heavy luggage and pressed her lips together. "I would offer to levitate it for you but my words to Mr Dursley earlier ring true. Whilst my magic would not necessarily alert the Ministry, it may well alert attention from less desirable directions. The quieter our getaway, the better."

Harry shrugged and began to drag the trunk out of the room, Professor McGonagall following with Hedwig, who had since given up chuntering for her freedom and was surveying Harry and the teacher haughtily. A thought crossed his mind and halfway down the stairs, he eventually ventured to give voice to it.

"Professor… If we aren't going to use magic then how are we going to get away in the first place?"

Professor McGonagall smiled minutely to herself.

"Hestia's car is still outside." From her amused expression, there was obviously something more to be said, but the firm set of her mouth revealed that she was not going to share it with him in a hurry. As they reached the front door, the small convoy stopped, and the professor's face changed on a dime. No longer smiling, her eyes were worried, and if Harry didn't know better, he would have said she was scared.

"Harry," she said quietly, putting a hand on his shoulder. "Do you trust me?"

Harry narrowed his eyes. What reason did he have not to trust his teacher? He nodded, but she did not remove her hand, nor did she break her gaze. After a moment she continued to speak.

"From the moment you step outside this door, you are vulnerable. We will try our utmost to protect you, we have measures in place, but there is always the possibility that something will happen. As the one who has orchestrated this sudden divergence from the original plan" – here Harry fought the temptation to ask precisely what the original plan had actually been – "I am responsible should anything happen. So I ask you again, Harry, do you trust me?"

Harry thought of the dead weight of her words, of the heavy responsibility that a witch ostensibly not all that young in years had taken on in the wake of Dumbledore's death, and he knew that he too would be having misgivings in her position. He nodded once more.

"Yes," he said. "I trust you Professor. Honestly."

Professor McGonagall nodded, seeming to be satisfied, but not for the first time Harry got the feeling that there was something she was not telling him.

"Now I have to ask if I can trust you," she said. "If, Merlin forbid it, something does happen, you need to get away. Don't worry about me, or anyone else. Just get out."

The tone was non-negotiable and Harry nodded, a little reluctantly. He could not leave people to die because of him, it went against the very nature of his being, and too many had met their fate because of his actions, his words, his mere existence already. But Harry knew Professor McGonagall, and he knew that if she said to leave her behind, then she meant it. Harry only hoped that he would not have to do so.

"Right," she said briskly, opening the front door and staring out at the wholly unexciting black car parked outside. "Then there's no time like the present."

Somewhat nervously, Harry pulled his trunk out into the driveway and towards the car. When nothing untoward befell them during these first few tentative steps of their journey, Harry picked up speed slightly. He was not sure what he was anticipating; perhaps he thought that Voldemort was going to drop out of the sky and land on him, but despite this generally uncharacteristic nervousness, he did not feel embarrassed showing it in the presence of his Head of House. Professor McGonagall was not exactly the picture of ease herself, and it had possibly been her, or maybe it was someone else, who had told him that fear helped one to stay alive. Harry could not think of an occasion upon which she would have said it to him, but when he heard the words in his head, they were spoken undeniably in her voice. Harry shook himself. Dwelling on this tension was not going to get him anywhere, and he forced his thoughts elsewhere. Professor McGonagall was flipping through the keyring that Hestia had given her earlier, and Harry had the overwhelming urge to ask his next question.

"Erm, Professor, can you drive a muggle car?"

A smile ghosted over the witch's features as she located the correct key and unlocked the doors and boot.

"Oh, believe me Potter, this is not a muggle car."

This declaration did not do anything for Harry's uneasiness. His previous experiences with the Weasleys' Ford Anglia had been enough to put him off travelling in any magically enhanced vehicle for the foreseeable future. He hefted his trunk into the boot very carefully, aware that the car might have some degree of sentience and might not thank him for unceremoniously lumping a heavy item of luggage into its rear end. As he got into the passenger door, he looked around the vehicle closely, but he couldn't see anything out of the ordinary.

"Arthur and Professor Burbage have done a magnificent job," said Professor McGonagall, fastening her seatbelt, and Harry did likewise. One could never be too careful when magic was concerned. "For a backup plan it turned out to be rather handy. Now…"

Her brow furrowed in concentration, the teacher slipped the key into the ignition and started the engine before setting off down Privet Drive at a snail's pace. Harry kept wondering when the car would show its magical potential; as of yet there was nothing to suggest that there was anything less-than-muggle about the vehicle at all. Maybe that was the beauty of the whole thing – it _was_ an ordinary muggle car, and the time it had spent with Mr Weasley and the Muggle Studies professor had just been a decoy. Harry wondered exactly how that would be an effective escape method whilst keeping his eyes open for any signs of untoward activity. Every so often he would glance across at Professor McGonagall; although she had since picked up a little speed she was still driving like a short-sighted pensioner who had mislaid her spectacles. After about five minutes, her expression changed from one of intense concentration to one of anger.

"Oh dear," said the professor through gritted teeth, and Harry could tell that she was resisting the urge to use slightly stronger language. He was privately glad that she did so; the shock of hearing the respectable headmistress swearing might have been worse than anything the Death Eaters could throw at him. He looked in the rear-view mirror and saw points of light flashing in the sky above them, lights that were definitely not attributable to an aeroplane.

"Kingsley, Remus and Tonks followed Hestia here, and they were following us," she continued, "but they have just been engaged. Well, we're nearly at the motorway, I'll be able to get my foot down then."

Harry risked a glance at the speedo, but before he could register their velocity or indeed lack thereof, there was an almighty thump and the car rocked from side to side.

"It appears there were more of Voldemort's followers on your watch than we had originally calculated for," muttered Professor McGonagall, and out of the window Harry could make out two dark shapes travelling along beside them. Out of the corner of his eye, he thought he could see a dangerous glint come into the professor's own eyes.

"Potter, I believe it is time for… what do the muggles call it? Ah yes. _Evasive manoeuvres._"

* * *

**Note2: ***Rubs hands together in glee.*


	6. Driving Miss McGonagall

**Note: **You really are lucky people. It's another double bill!

**Note2: ** I had the luck to be loaned an English copy of DH over the weekend, which proved exasperating, immensely useful and warm-glow-giving in equal measure. Exasperating because I started reading the ending instead of doing my homework, and because I realised my characterisation of Hestia in chapter four was completely up the creek. Immensely useful because I took copious notes so hopefully will avoid such problems in the future. And warm-glow-giving because it reaffirmed my undying love for the Malfoy family.

* * *

**Chapter Six**

**Driving Miss McGonagall**

Whatever doubts that Harry might previously have held about his professor's ability to drive were completely and utterly defenestrated at that moment in time. The black hatchback screamed forward with a noise akin to a cat that has just had its tail trodden on by someone wearing hobnail boots, and Harry grabbed onto the side of his seat for purchase, extremely glad that he had put his seatbelt on. He blinked a few times to refocus after the sudden change of speed and felt the colour drain out of his face on seeing that they were headed straight towards a house. If the car didn't pull up and fly like the Anglia soon, or if Professor McGonagall did not swerve, then they were going to end up as a rather decorative wall-hanging on the outside of a two-bed semi in the middle of Surrey.

The car did not pull up and fly, and Professor McGonagall did not swerve. The car went straight on, and Harry braced himself for impact, trying to close his eyes but finding himself unable to. Of all the ways to go, he had not expected this one.

But the imminent crash never came. The car bounced off the wall as if it was made of rubber, leaving both house and vehicle completely undamaged. The same could not be said of the Death Eaters that had been following them. One of them crashed headlong into the side of the house, and the professor swung the steering wheel to direct them back onto the road. Harry looked round, desperately trying to find any sign of the second shape that had been following them. Even though her eyes never moved from the road in front of her, Professor McGonagall seemed to know what he was looking for.

"I believe he has gone for reinforcements," she said grimly. "With luck, we will be able to make it to the Burrow before they arrive, although I hold out little hope." She pressed her foot even further down on the accelerator pedal; Harry was amazed that they could go any faster than they were already travelling. This time, when he successfully looked at the speedo, his heart leapt to his mouth for the opposite reason – they were now going so fast that the needle was shuddering violently against the limiter. They'd hit a hundred and eighty miles an hour and, from the sounds that the engine was making, they'd left it far, far behind. Within a few minutes, they had reached the main road; at least, Harry could see the intermittent lights of other cars. He wondered why he had not seen any other cars on their journey this far; perhaps they had been going so fast that he hadn't seen them. It was only as the professor touched the brakes just long enough for the world to stop being quite such a blur past the windows that he realised that they had not been travelling on the road for the past few minutes, but rather over a field that over looked the road.

Professor McGonagall swung the steering wheel round and Harry could not help but give an exclamation of horror as the car flew over the flimsy fence that kept cows from falling onto the road. They landed in the fast lane behind a Citroen and a Ferrari and undertook both of them without stopping. Harry couldn't help but wonder how many galleons' worth of speeding fines the teacher had clocked up, and this in turn reminded him of another unavoidable point.

"Professor, I don't suppose this car is invisible, is it? Only muggles are fairly strict about their traffic laws… And I don't think any of them are accustomed to seeing a car like this go quite so fast. It's not the speed that's the problem," he added quickly, "it's the fact it's a Hyundai."

Professor McGonagall looked at him blankly for a brief second before composing herself.

"Of course Potter, you're right."

She reached up and prodded around on the driver's sunvisor with her wand, and suddenly the air was filled with blue lights and the unmistakeable sound of a police siren.

"Professor Burbage's idea," she explained, her expression completely deadpan. "Useful, no?"

Harry couldn't help but smile, but the brief moment of mirth did not last long. A dark shape caught his eye in the wing mirror and he twisted in his seat to see the shadows of robed figures weaving in and out of the cars behind them. Harry couldn't tell if they were riding broomsticks or if they were flying unaided, but they were definitely getting closer.

There was a thunderous crash on the roof of the car, and Harry surmised that it had been caused by a Death Eater apparating on top of it. The sudden jolt caused Professor McGonagall to swerve violently, and once she had finally managed to regain control of the vehicle, she pulled out her wand.

"Somehow I think that even police sirens won't distract the muggles from our unwanted passenger," she said through gritted teeth, "and since our presence has been uncovered already, there is little point in holding back…"

The last word became more of a shriek as the car shuddered under the force of a spell from the wizard riding on top of it, and in that moment Harry felt the uncomfortable sensation of being disillusioned. He surmised that the entire car and its occupants were now as good as invisible to muggle eyes, but the undeniable howling of the police blues and twos remained. Risking a glance out of the rear window to determine the whereabouts of their pursuers, Harry could see the baffled faces of the other drivers on the road that they were passing, wondering no doubt where the siren was coming from. The other Death Eaters that had been following them seemed to have fallen back, and Harry could tell from the lights dancing in the sky that the Order had caught up with them and was providing a worthy distraction. If they could only get rid of the persistent wizard atop the car, who was intent on destroying it piece by piece. From the amount of jolts and jarring that the vehicle had already withstood, Harry surmised that it was definitely not a muggle car, and that it had various protective charms in place.

"If I could just undo his sticking spell…" Professor McGonagall was muttering as she continued to weave in and out of the other road-users. "Not even a magician can stand on top of a car travelling at three-hundred miles an hour unaided. The problem is the shields that are in place… They work both ways, whilst his spells cannot get in, mine cannot get out either. I can only disapparate… The wards will not hold forever, we can't simply ignore it…"

The professor was talking to herself rather than Harry; indeed he was of the opinion that she had perhaps forgotten his presence beside her. Presently she took a deep breath.

"There's only one thing for it." Professor McGonagall turned to Harry. "Potter, you'll have to take the wheel."

Harry started to protest, but before he could do so, she had disapparated. Harry lunged across the car and grabbed the steering wheel, but thankfully this Hyundai, like the Anglia had, seemed to possess some degree of intelligence of its own, and nothing befell them in the slight pause between drivers except a slight loss of pace. Hoping with every fibre of his being that the car would continue to drive itself and he would not have to do much other than point it in the right direction occasionally, Harry undid his seatbelt and slid into the driver's seat, keeping one hand tightly gripped on the steering wheel at all times. Once he was as comfortably settled as possible, he realised that he didn't have any idea in which direction he needed to go to reach the Burrow. He knew that it was south-west of Privet Drive, but his geographical knowledge of Britain's major highways was somewhat lacking.

At least the car had stopped being battered around quite as much, and Harry did not like to think of the duel that was going on atop the vehicle. It was definitely a duel, he could hear the spells flying back and forth, and he was very glad that he could not see what was going on above him. He thought of Professor McGonagall's words about sticking spells, and he glanced around at the cars that they were sharing the road with. Even though none of them were going quite as fast as they were, Harry was certain that neither headmistress nor Death Eater would survive being run over if they were to fall. He had to get them off the main road, but there were no exits coming up. Harry grimaced at the thought of what he was about to do, then took a deep breath and swung the car violently to the left, praying that the protection that had caused it to bounce off the house earlier still held fast, and that he would come out of any unanticipated collisions in one piece. Perhaps it was the fact that the car was disillusioned, or that it was still making frantic siren noises, but for whatever reason, Harry managed to get across two lanes of traffic without meeting any other travellers, and he continued to keep the car going straight, across the fields. There were trees to the left and right of them but miraculously, none in front. Harry could tell whether this was because the car was swerving to avoid them of its own accord, for he was certainly not doing anything in the way of steering, or whether the trees themselves were jumping out of the way. After his experiences with the Whomping Willow, he would not have been at all surprised to find that there were some trees in the wizarding world, ones that he had yet to acquaint himself with, that were capable of leaving their roots behind in order to avoid being hit by wayward Hyundais. Perhaps he had just discovered a completely new species living in northern Hampshire, but it was not the time for getting distracted. Harry was still horribly aware of the sounds of a magical battle raging above him and he wished that he could do something to help. It was a sobering thought, the image of Professor McGonagall engaged in an all-out duel. During his time at Hogwarts he had never seen her use combative magic, indeed she had had no reason to, and it whilst it was not easy to forget that she was a formidable witch, it was harder to remember and accept the fact that she knew far more magic than that of her own specialised field. All the same, however capable the headmistress might have been in the field of duelling, Harry was determined that the fight on the car's roof would not go on for much longer.

Presently, the car gave a violent lurch to the left under the force of a spell, and Harry had to use all his strength to get the steering wheel back in a straight line. Suddenly everything seemed to be an awful lot louder, and the effects of the magic that was taking place on top of the vehicle seemed to be affecting it ever more acutely than it had been doing before. Harry surmised that the protective wards that surrounded the car were breaking down under the barrage. There was the crack of an apparition in his left ear, and Harry pulled out his wand ready to attack whoever had materialised next to him, but he lowered it when he found Tonks sitting there.

"Thought I'd do that before anyone else had the opportunity to," she said, twisting around in the seat and leaning over the headrest to run her wand over the grey felt of the roof, the wood leaving a little trail of sparks that faded into the darkness. "We saw the anti-apparition spell fade through the disillusion; I came to renew it…" There was a particularly painful sounding thump from outside, although it was now slightly muffled thanks to Tonks' efforts. "I'd better go; it's two against one up there." She went to disappear out of the car again but before she did so she cast a compass spell, the points and arrows shimmering on the dashboard.

"You're going too far North," she pointed out, and with that slightly helpful remark, she was gone.

Harry twisted the steering wheel and set off West, hoping that the car would simply travel as the crow flew, either avoiding or bouncing off everything in its path. He thought of Professor McGonagall outside, and he came up with a crude, non-magical but hopefully effective plan. The only flaw was that he couldn't communicate his intentions to the battling witch. Hopefully she would be shrewd enough to pick up on what he was trying to do and act accordingly. He twisted the steering wheel towards the nearest tree, staring intently at the low hanging branch. It was just a slim chance, probably not even worth it as he knew so little of what was occurring above him. He fought with the car to keep it on track; the little vehicle did not in any way want to be driven full pelt towards a tree against its wishes, and it was all he could do to stop it from veering off to avoid the obstacle. He swerved at the last minute and to his utter astonishment, he heard a thump as the branch hit one of the people on the roof and sent them flying. A momentary fear flooded through his veins and he glanced out of the rear-view mirror to check that he had indeed sent the _right _person flying. He spotted a dark shape on the ground in the distance behind them – the car was still going at over two hundred miles an hour despite the fact that Harry's feet were nowhere near the pedals – and he cursed his lack of foresight. The plan had been excellent at the time, but now that it had been put into action he could see the pitfalls all too clearly. There was a slight scrabbling noise as the sunroof flew open and something dropped down inside the car, the something then transforming from a blur of tabby-patterned fur into Professor McGonagall. She looked rather flushed and flustered and her hair was falling out of its customary bun, but other than that she appeared to be unharmed.

"Thank you Potter," she said, panting slightly. "Quick thinking there. I was able to break his sticking spell just in time for the branch to take care of the rest." She too looked behind her as she cast a silent spell to seal up the hole in the roof once more. "We shall have to keep a lookout, but it appears that our colleagues have the situation under control at the moment."

Professor McGonagall drew a map of Britain in the air with her wand and pointed at the place Harry assumed to be Surrey.

"Take us home," she said simply, and the car steered to the left of its own accord, the faint roaring in Harry's ears telling him that they had once more picked up a ludicrous amount of speed. He wondered how magical cars came to have such a level of independent thought; whether it came as a result of the enchantments or as an unintended side-effect. He thought of Mr Weasley's wise words of what seemed like so many years ago, and he wondered where the Hyundai kept its brain. Under the bonnet in the engine perhaps. He was tempted to ask Professor McGonagall, but it did not feel appropriate, admitting the fact that his mind was focussed on such trivial things when their lives were in a very real peril. Thankfully, he was saved from his quandary by the witch herself.

"I will never understand how Arthur and Charity manage to make these things so clever," she mmuttered under her breath as she fixed her hair in the rear-view mirror. "Now, all we have to do is pray that its cleverness can get us to the Burrow in one piece before the magic runs out." She turned to Harry. "Professor Burbage only imbued it with so much power, and it has had to withstand quite a bit in the past few minutes."

Harry nodded, but it was only ten minutes later that their prayers were needed. The car gave an almighty clang, followed by a feeble stutter, and then a cough. It sounded as if it had run out of petrol, and judging from their rapidly decreasing speed, that was the most logical explanation for what had happened. Harry could feel the protective charms fading along with the speed, and they were almost at a complete unprotected standstill when Harry spotted the shadowy form of the Burrow on the horizon, and in that moment the car, perhaps sensing the nearness of its owner, put on a final burst of speed. Unfortunately, what they gained in velocity, they lost in general control, and before Harry or Professor McGonagall could do anything, they were heading straight for the wall of the house. This time, Harry knew that the car would not bounce…

* * *

**Note3: **Hehe! I wasn't sure about this chapter because I was in a funny mood whilst writing it and I got The Dreaded Block halfway through. It ended up being a lot more tongue in cheek than I intended, but I couldn't think of a way to change it. It also ended up far longer than I was expecting. This, though, is a good thing.

**Note4: **Google Maps has a journey from central Surrey to the Devon town of Ottery St Mary as taking an average of three hours. Harry and Minerva managed it in about thirty minutes… Now, onwards!


	7. Reunion

**Note: **The second part of the double bill. I would love it if double bills became a weekly feature but I simply cannot promise it. For the moment I will stick with saying 'at least one chapter a week, any more are a bonus'.

* * *

**Chapter Seven**

**Reunion**

"_ARRESTO MOMENTUM!_"

The shout came from somewhere in the vicinity and the car came to a screeching halt with just inches to spare. After taking a few moments to compose themselves and come to terms with the fact that they were in fact still alive and not entangled in a heap of twisted metal smashed against the Weasley home, Harry and Professor McGonagall got out of the car, Harry thoroughly embarrassed of the way his knees were shaking. Luckily, the headmistress did not look all that well either; indeed she had gone a pale shade of green.

"Harry!" He turned to see the wonderfully familiar face of Mrs Weasley careering out of the doorway with her arms outstretched to envelop him in a hug, but before she could reach him, her path was blocked by her eldest son. It was only in that moment that Harry realised that there were three wands trained on him and his teacher, these being wielded by Bill, Mr Weasley and Mad-Eye Moody. The former two looked slightly apologetic, but Moody was regarding him with suspicion, his magical eye completely still for once as it focussed on him, and Harry wondered if it was trying to see through possible disguises.

"Minerva, you know the drill," he said gruffly. Professor McGonagall nodded and transformed into a cat and back again. Moody looked somewhat satisfied by this and Harry's theory regarding the animagus ability as a foolproof method of identifying a witch or wizard was confirmed. Moody turned his wand on Harry.

"Harry…Why should you never put your wand in your back pocket?"

Harry wracked his brains to try and think of the words that Moody had spoken when they had broken him out of Privet Drive two summers previously. It was hard to remember things, and not look suspicious whilst doing so, when one had been put upon on the spur of the moment and one knew that the pressure would not lessen until the question had been answered.

"Because better wizards than me have lost buttocks," he quoted, and Moody finally lowered his wand.

"And don't you forget it," he said.

"Sorry about that Harry," said Mr Weasley cheerfully as he and Bill finally let Molly through to throw her arms around him. "You can never be too careful, especially now…" He didn't finish the sentence, but Harry nodded his understanding none-the-less, and let himself be overwhelmed by Mrs Weasley's attention.

"… If I'd known you were coming," she was saying, patting him down for injury, "I'd have done a treacle tart… How come you're so early anyway? Is everything alright?"

Harry looked to Professor McGonagall for assistance.

"We thought, well, I thought, that it would be more profitable to change the date at the last minute," she said. "I know that we were already planning on doing that, but I thought that perhaps the more last minute the better…"

They were interrupted by the crack of apparition and Kingsley, Lupin and Tonks appeared. Once the formalities of establishing the veracity of their identities was over and the Order members were caught up in the explanation of all the events that had led to their arrival, Harry managed to divest himself of Mrs Weasley's attention and run in the direction of the new voices that were shouting his name.

"Harry! Harry!"

Ron and Hermione were running towards him with as much exuberance as he was running towards them, and they collided in the middle of the yard in a clumsy mixture of hugs so chaotic that no-one could tell precisely whose limbs belonged to who.

"What happened?" Hermione asked, her voice betraying the inherent worry that she felt whenever something didn't go exactly according to plan. "We weren't expecting you until next Thursday, perhaps Monday at the earliest if we brought the date forward…"

"Oh, don't worry about it," said Ron. "Harry's here now, let's focus on that and ignore the fact that McGonagall decided to be spontaneous." He looked over his shoulder at the gathered Order huddled by the car. "Not sure Moody's particularly happy about it though."

Harry couldn't elaborate on the reasoning behind Professor McGonagall's sudden change of plans as he didn't know it himself, so he concentrated instead on telling them the story of the eventful journey from Privet Drive to the Burrow. Hermione was shaking her head in despair by the time he got to the part in which he drove point blank towards a tree, but Ron found the whole thing hilarious, especially when the car suddenly let out a siren burst for no apparent reason and the adults standing beside it started at the sudden noise.

"That was priceless!" said Ron. "Come on, let's get inside. We can talk more about… You know what." Harry nodded and Ron cast a spell to summon his luggage out of the boot of the car.

"You brought your trunk?" he asked incredulously. "Isn't that a bit overkill?"

"Ron!" hissed Hermione, gesturing the Order. Harry was not quite sure how much they knew, and he was anxious to share the words that Professor McGonagall had said to him just before their departure with Ron and Hermione. He led the way into the house and Ron and Hermione followed, bouncing his trunk up the stairs.

"McGonagall made me bring it," he said once they were safely squeezed into Ron's room. "Dumbledore told her about the horcruxes, but I don't know if the rest of the Order knows." He paused. "I don't think she wants us to go."

"She wouldn't," said Hermione. "She's taken over from Dumbledore as headteacher. The most primal duty of any head of a school is to protect its students, all of its students, and she can't do that if three of them are on a horcrux hunt."

Harry could not fault Hermione's simple logic. There was silence for a while as each of them digested the words and the meaning behind them.

"So what do we do now?" asked Ron glumly. "I mean, we've still got to do this, we can't not go just because McGonagall doesn't want us to."

Harry shook his head.

"I think there's something more," he said, "something she isn't telling us yet. Another reason." He paused, trying to fathom what the reason might be but soon giving up; there were too many possibilities and his mind was too fraught from the experiences of the last hour to try and concentrate on any remotely useful cogitations. "Let's not think about it now," he said quickly. "We'll decide after we've had some sleep. What's been going on here?"

"Well," said Ron, lying back on his bed and resting his feet on top of Harry's trunk, "the house has become a sort-of unofficial not-quite-headquarters for the Order… Mum's furious with Bill…"

"How come?" Harry asked, taken aback.

"He and Fleur… They got married last Saturday, just a quiet thing in a registry office. The thing is, Mum's been having wedding ideas for ages, with it being her first son and all that, and then they went and got hitched without telling her because they didn't want to wait… Well, you wouldn't, would you, not when You-Know-Who could be hiding just about anywhere." Ron paused. "But it's done now and she can't do anything about it. Who knows, they might end up having to get married again for the benefit of all the elderly relatives who were just hanging on long enough to see one of their great-nephews down the aisle. What else… Tonks and Lupin tied the knot the day before Bill and Fleur did; I'm telling you, we might as well get a licence and open our own office in the chicken coop, we've had that many weddings in the past week."

Harry couldn't help but laugh, although the news was not exactly heartwarming. True, the idea of life continuing in spite of everything that was happening was a good one; and whilst it made Harry proud to think that despite everything, Voldemort couldn't stop them from living, it also made him sad to think that their circumstances and fear were such that these people had been cheated of what could have been a momentous occasion for them. He thought about it; would Tonks really have missed getting dressed up in white and tripping up the aisle towards Lupin? Maybe not, she did seem like the type to do a bunk to Las Vegas to get wed by an Elvis impersonator, but he had no illusions that given the choice, Fleur would have wanted a big white wedding. It was a mark of just how fearful for their futures everyone was.

Presently Hermione's voice brought him back out of his thoughts.

"I still can't believe you drove here though, just you and Professor McGonagall with only Kingsley, Lupin and Tonks for protection," she was saying. "That's about as far removed from the original plan as possible! But then again, it would have been impossible to move the original plan forwards to today; the potion isn't ready yet…"

She tailed off under Harry's blank expression. The headmistress had mentioned something about the original plan, but Harry still didn't know what it actually was. He had expected to be taken by side-along apparition, after all, it was the quickest way of getting from A to B within the magical world, and it was extremely difficult to tail an apparition. But then again, apparition left traces of magic, and it was this magic that Voldemort would have been looking for…

"What was the original plan?" he asked. Hermione and Ron did their best to try and suppress little amused smiles, but they did not quite manage it.

"It was Mundungus's idea actually," said Ron. "And for him, it was a pretty ingenious idea. All circumstances considered and all that."

"Polyjuice potion," said Hermione simply. "The Order planned to create about seven Harry Potters and lead the Death Eaters on a wild goose chase all around the country, so they wouldn't know which was which. Well, hopefully." She shrugged. "Who knows, it might have worked, and it was better than nothing. But the potion wouldn't have been ready until Monday, so that's why we weren't expecting to see you quite so soon." She stopped, shook her head and threw her arms around him in a hug once more. "Not, of course, that we aren't amazingly pleased to see you in one piece. Still, driving an enchanted car across the fields to Devon…"

They were interrupted by a knock at the door, and Ginny poked her head around it.

"Mum's made hot chocolate," she said plainly, and the trio needed no further invitation. Harry looked awkwardly at their messenger as they filed out of the room, and she caught his gaze and held it. There was turmoil clear to see in her eyes, a turmoil that Harry also felt. He had tried to avoid thinking about what he would feel once he saw Ginny again after terminating their short-lived relationship at the end of the school year, and he had been completely unprepared. Neither of them spoke, until Ginny finally broke the silence.

"Go on," she urged. "It'll be getting cold."

Harry nodded.

"Thanks," he said, and he made his way down the stairs towards Hermione and Ron, who were waiting for him politely out of earshot. On the last step, he looked back at Ginny. She was still standing in the landing, in exactly the same position as when he had left her. She gave him a weak smile of encouragement before turning and going further up the stairs towards her room. Still trying to make sense of his jumbled emotions, Harry pulled himself together just in time to enter the kitchen to the wholly unusual sight of the stern transfiguration professor allowing Moody to pour an extremely generous measure of liquor from his hip flask into the steaming mug of hot chocolate that was cradled in her shaking hands. The older witch did not look quite as ill as she had done when they had first exited the car, but it was clear that it was a not an experience that she wanted to repeat in a hurry.

"You were fantastic Minerva," Tonks said from her position sitting cross-legged on the draining board as they took their places in the now slightly cramped kitchen and Mrs Weasley bustled steaming mugs of hot chocolate into their hands. "You should have seen it Molly, I've never witnessed anything like it."

"I'm not sure I'd want to see it," said Mrs Weasley briskly. "Can I get you a potion of some sort, Minerva? Brandy for medicinal purposes?"

"No thank you Molly," Professor McGonagall replied, having just taken a sip of her hot chocolate and obviously finding it a little more strongly laced than she had expected. Tonks opened her mouth to say something else but before she could elaborate on the details of the headmistress's visually dynamic duel, the flash of silver through the open kitchen window heralded the arrival of a patronus message. It was a lop-eared rabbit that spoke in a voice that Harry had last heard about an hour previously.

"_The Dursleys are safe_," said Hestia, but there was nothing more to the simple message and the rabbit bounded away again into the ether. The words silenced the gathered company, everyone's eyes turning unconsciously towards Harry. He had the strange feeling that he ought to say something, but he didn't have a clue what was fitting in the circumstances. He took a big gulp of hot chocolate to occupy his mouth and struggled not to spit it out when it scalded his tongue.

Just then, before anyone had the chance to break the awkward silence that had fallen upon the Order, another patronus arrived, a shape that was once again unfamiliar to Harry. This time, however, no-one in the kitchen seemed to recognise the leopard.

"_They're here!_" was the frantic cry that issued forth from the animal's mouth. "_Azkaban is under attack!_"

The Order members looked at each other, and after a conversation that took place through the medium of meaning glances and small gestures alone, Kingsley left the kitchen. Harry didn't know how long they spent waiting for his return, but he knew that no-one moved from the kitchen whilst they waited, the chocolate slowly going cold as the darkness began to fade into dawn. Finally, Kingsley reappeared, looking grave.

"The message came from Corban Athabasca, the Azkaban file-keeper," he said. "He'd intended it for the nearest Auror he could find, but under attack his direction was haphazard and it ended up with us, too late. Azkaban has fallen. The Death Eaters attacked tonight and freed their fellows." He paused. "Scrimgeour's determined to hush it up; he would be, but I went there… Athabasca's the only one who's not an inmate left alive."

The silence that fell with Kingsley's words was even more heavy and oppressive than it had been before his reappearance. All the euphoria that they had felt at getting Harry to safety without mishap had gone, knowing that something so monumental had been taking place simultaneously.

Well, Harry thought grimly, at least that explained how come there had not been all that many Death Eaters chasing them across the county borders. He looked askance at Professor McGonagall, who was staring down into her mug, and not for the first time that night, he got the impression that she knew slightly more than she was letting on.

* * *

**Note2: **Ho hum… Next time, a little sojourn back with the Death Eaters… Is that the beginning of flagrant insubordination I see on the horizon?


	8. The Decay Sets In

**Note: **Despite the fact that Narcissa is my favourite character, this has proved the hardest of the chapters to write so far. In fact, it went through almost a complete rewrite from the way I first imagined it taking place. I think that's always the way, though. I suppose I'm scared of not doing my favourites justice.

* * *

**Chapter Eight**

**The Decay Sets In**

Narcissa Malfoy had never before felt like a stranger in her own home, but now there was no denying the uncomfortable sensation as she listened to people moving around her private domain, invading her space, poking their noses into places where they were not welcome, turning over the details of her and her family's lives to scrutiny and ridicule. Oh yes, she had charmed locked doors that had always been open in the past, and she had hidden as much as she could in her limited time, but she had spent enough time around Death Eaters to know that if there was something they wanted, they would get their grubby hands on it by hook or by crook. She dreaded to think how much silverware and alcohol was already going missing; glad that the heart of the Manor remained protected by a magic that was so old and ingrained that even Lucius, Lord and Master of the house, didn't have the means to alter it, and that she had been able to stow her most treasured possessions away within its sacrosanct walls. Photographs, small bits of jewellery with sentimental value; the baby book she had so painstakingly made for Draco; the thin and faded ribbon of green velvet that she had worn on the night of his conception… all things whose loss she could bear only marginally better than the loss of the two men of her household, currently squirreled away in the drawing room below her whilst she had been banished from their meeting. Banished from a room in her own house; made to feel like a stranger in a place where she should always have felt safe. She was not 'one of them', she did not wear that blasted Mark, and as grateful as she was not to be imprisoned by the duties it entailed, Narcissa did not like being kept out of things, not when those things were taking place in her own house and might well involve cold-blooded murder.

She was, to put it perfectly bluntly, terrified. Terrified of being in her own home whilst that… _man_ who had tried so hard and so desperately to break apart her family also occupied the space. Narcissa had been sitting stock still on the sofa for the past two hours, and she would have been perfectly happy not to have moved a muscle until she was certain that the Dark Lord was gone from her drawing room and she could move freely through her own domain once more. She might be able to ignore the lingerers; she might be able to ignore Wormtail poking his rat's nose into everywhere it was not allowed, but the presence of someone who could cause her such unprecedented fear with just one look of those bloodthirsty eyes could not be swept under the rug. She thought of Lucius and Draco, and she wondered what was happening in the meeting. She thought of the way Draco's nervous, constantly moving eyes had caught hers with a pleading look just before he had entered the room; almost as if he was begging her not to let him go, but they both knew that she was powerless to stop him. She remembered the night that Severus had brought him back to the Manor after Dumbledore's death. Narcissa was a mother, and she had seen Draco in distress before, but after a year of his shunning her contact, her worries and seemingly her love itself, it had affected Narcissa deeply to have her son seek comfort in his mother's arms as he had done so many years before. As she had held him, murmuring the sort of meaningless assurances that were designed solely to soothe and calm, she had felt the lion of motherhood roar in her chest and she had reiterated the vow that for as long as he needed her, she would do anything to keep her son safe.

And Lucius… Lucius was a different man; a man who was not quite broken but who was teetering ever more towards the point of shattering irreparably into a million pieces. She had never before thought of him as fragile; why should she when he had managed to sail through his life so far encountering little in the way of resistance or difficulty? But last night, when he had returned and held her so tightly and with such sheer desperation that she could barely breathe, then she knew that he was as vulnerable as any other man to the fears and trepidations that his tenuous position entailed. She had not slept; scared that no matter how tight the hold might be, if she closed her eyes then he might slip away from her again. She knew Lucius felt the same way, and she wondered if either of them would ever be able to get to sleep again.

Suddenly she heard movement below her, and Narcissa twitched in her stiff position. The meeting was over. People were leaving, but the malingering presence who caused her so much unease still remained. Tentatively she stretched out her arms and flexed her fingers, her mind seeming to come heavily back into her body after having been absent in her thoughts for so long. She listened to the sounds, trying to divine whether anything worrying was occurring or if people were simply leaving, as she had originally surmised. More specifically, she listened for some something, _anything_, that would tell her whether Lucius and Draco were alright.

Her prayer was answered when the sitting room door opened and her husband appeared in the frame, one hand pressed against his head as if he was trying to stop his skull from cleaving in two. Narcissa had, thank Merlin, never been on the receiving end of the Cruciatus curse, but she knew from Severus that Lucius would be feeling the after effects of his relentless punishment for a few days. "The occasional twinge", the former potions master had said with unconcealed bitterness. Narcissa looked at him, worrying her bottom lip between her teeth, wanting to both comfort her husband and find out her son's whereabouts with equal urgency and not knowing which to do first. Thankfully, Lucius seemed to read her expression.

"Draco went to his room," he said with a slight groan. "He's fine. Just… shaken."

"Aren't we all?" murmured Narcissa, but the relief on hearing these simple words that flooded through her veins prevented her from saying anything else. Lucius waved his wand and summoned the bottle of brandy across from the room before collapsing heavily onto the sofa beside his wife. He uncapped it and went to take a slug, but Narcissa stopped him with a gentle hand on his shoulder and floated a glass across to him.

"You aren't a drunkard, darling," she said.

"Not yet," muttered Lucius. He closed his eyes as he sipped the brandy, and his next words were spoken with such a simple longing that it rent Narcissa's heart. "My head is killing me, Ciss."

Silently, she put an arm around his shoulders and pulled him in closer to her side, allowing his head to droop onto her collar bone. She ran her fingertips through his hair absently, wondering what, if anything, she could do to make it all better. It was a chilling thought, but Narcissa had come to the realisation, during her hours alone in the sitting room, that she was being counted upon to lead the family through this time of crisis. Whereas before she had been angered by her prominent exclusion from the matters taking place in her own home, now she welcomed her segregation, for it kept her just a tiny bit safer. Of course, where… _he_ was concerned, nothing was certain. She would no doubt be the first one that he would turn to when he required Lucius or Draco's unwavering co-operation in something. She was still going to be the bait, the threatened party, but as long as she could keep her distance, she could keep her thoughts to herself. She was free to think, to plan, to try and guide them through with her guile and Slytherin cunning as best she could. It would be suicidal to even think of going against the Dark Lord; she was not stupid enough to think that she could stand up to him even in her own home, but she hoped that she could keep her family safe. That was all that mattered. All they had to do was survive, and once they had survived, they would deal with the other consequences when they arose. All they had to do was survive, and Narcissa was determined to make sure that they did.

A discreet knock on the door pulled her forcibly out of her fierce thoughts, and she cursed the fear that bubbled up in the back of her throat completely of its own accord. She should not have to feel fear in the place she had called home for the last twenty years.

"Enter," she said, doing well to keep the quaver out of her voice, but her fingers went to her wand all the same. Lucius made no move except to press his nose almost imperceptibly into her décolletage in a gesture that conveyed the fact he was thoroughly sick of company.

The door opened silently – Narcissa had yet to decide whether this lack of sound was more or less ominous than a pre-emptory creak would have been – and she looked up to see Severus silhouetted in the doorframe.

"I had a feeling you might be requiring this," he said, holding out a small vial to Lucius as he entered the room. Lucius finally looked up and grimaced on seeing it. The potions master did not miss the look and raised an eyebrow.

"As much as I hate to sound like your mother, Lucius, it will do you far more good than brandy will."

Lucius snorted, obviously doubtful and emptied what remained of the brandy into the glass, but he took the vial and drained it with good grace. Narcissa peered at Severus across the top of his head, knowing what she wanted to ask him but not exactly sure how she could phrase it. She trusted Severus, he was one of few Death Eaters that she did truly trust, and if she was pressed, she would have to admit that it was for no other reason than a gut feeling. He seemed to know what she was thinking – he probably _did_ know what she was thinking – and he shook his head.

"No, the Dark Lord has not left yet. He is speaking to Bellatrix on a private matter."

Narcissa felt a morbid curiosity to discover precisely what was being said in that particular conversation and Severus's expression melted momentarily into one of amusement before his usual blank façade returned.

"May I?" he asked, indicating the brandy. "It's been a… _testing_ few days."

Narcissa took the empty bottle from her husband's grasp and vanished it.

"I'll fetch a new bottle," she announced unnecessarily, and reluctantly Lucius sat upright to allow her to stand. She stretched out the stiffness that had accumulated in her limbs after such a period of sitting so rigidly, and left the room purposefully.

Her thoughts as to the content of Bellatrix's private conversations were not idle speculation. Narcissa knew as well as anyone what her sister was capable of, and she knew that personal interface with the master to whom she was so completely devoted would only serve to unhinge her already disturbed mind even further. Somehow, Narcissa knew that anything they planned together would be worse than anything that the entire rest of the corps combined could mete out to their enemies. If they were planning something, then Narcissa wanted to be prepared. Her family had been hurt too much already. She stole down the stairs and, her heart beating painfully in her mouth, she crept closer to the drawing room. It surprised her that there were no measures in place to keep the conversation therein private. Then again, such was the Dark Lord's arrogance that he probably did not expect anyone to eavesdrop.

"… I am worried about Severus," he was saying, and his cold voice almost froze Narcissa to the spot. "I fear that there may be conflicts in where his loyalties lie."

"Certainly my Lord; it can be no coincidence that Minerva McGonagall chose yesterday evening to move Potter, especially when Snape had been talking to her so shortly beforehand."

Bellatrix's voice was low and purring, the same sort of voice that Narcissa would have expected her to use to Rodolphus in the bedroom. It made her nauseous to think of it.

"Indeed. Perhaps a little test is in order…"

Narcissa had heard enough. She knew what they were planning; to let slip some information and see whether, suddenly, Minerva McGonagall came into possession of it. She slunk away from the door and down into the cellar to fetch the brandy, the cool helping her to gather her opinions in a logical manner. Should she tell Severus that this test of his loyalties was planned? Should she let him puzzle it out for himself? It wouldn't do any harm to let him know what she had heard, would it? If he was loyal to the Dark Lord then it would make no difference, and if he wasn't…

Narcissa thought of Severus, of the man who had protected Draco when she could not, of the man who had rescued Lucius from Azkaban and returned him to her, of the man who had reunited her family and brought them back together once more. She owed him so much, and it did not seem to be quite so wrong to return the many favours that he had granted her over the years with this relatively simple piece of information. If the past months were anything to go by, then Narcissa and her family would need Severus's help again. And, thought Narcissa to herself as she made her way back to the sitting room, these wholly selfish reasons aside, she honestly didn't care anymore. Who cared whether Severus was on their side or the other side? As long as the menace who was threatening her family and her happiness was gone in the end, Narcissa could honestly say that she did not care about the motivations of Lucius's fellows. She did, however, care about the fate of a man who had been a quiet and unassuming rock of support for the Malfoy family for as long as she could remember.

She opened the sitting room door a fraction and peered around it.

"Severus, I need to speak to you for a moment. I have… overheard something I think you ought to be aware of," she said, and as he came towards her she smiled inwardly at what she was about to do. The decay within the ranks was setting in. The insubordination had begun…

* * *

**Note2: **Do not forget Narcissa's thoughts on what a private chinwag between Bellatrix and Voldemort might mean…

And yes, in my timeline Lucius still has his wand at this point in the proceedings… *Kimmeth raises an eyebrow.* God, am I permanently gutter-bound? Onwards to the next chapter!


	9. The Woes of an Executrix

**Note: **Second part of the double bill. Enjoy!

* * *

**Chapter Nine**

**The Woes of an Executrix**

Minerva rested her head in her hands and stared down at the desk in the head's office – she still couldn't think of it as belonging to her – although she was not truly seeing it. Her thoughts were miles away. She had re-established contact with Severus and she had got Harry to the comparative safety of the Burrow almost single-handedly. Now what? Minerva felt like she was a minnow floundering in a sea of sharks; the entire weight of, well, _everything_ was on her shoulders and it was threatening to crush her completely. She was so horribly alone as she fought her one-woman war, aided solely by a colleague only she could trust and a handful of canvasses that could provide excellent wisdom but very little in the way of physical assistance or comfort. Minerva was a practical and not-at-all tactile woman, but in that moment she found herself longing for the embrace of a friend to give her some solace, to let her know that she was not the only person in this wretched world. A tear dripped onto the desk and Minerva hastily wiped away those that threatened to follow it. There was no time to be wasted in self-pity. She had to get on and get the rest of Albus's grand plan implemented. Severus had insinuated to her that his return to Hogwarts was guaranteed, but getting Harry to follow was going to be far more difficult. As proud of her house as she was, Minerva also knew their inherent bad points, and stubbornness was one of them. When Albus had told her, albeit through a memory that had not originally been intended for her eyes, that he and Harry had begun a search for these dread horcruxes, she had known that it would be a nigh on impossible task to try and execute Albus's wish that he should return to Hogwarts. Speaking of executing… Minerva pushed the small problem of Harry to one side and picked up the envelope containing Albus's Will. She really ought to read it and be done with it, lest it become one of the spectres hovering over her shoulder like all the other momentous happenings that she had been tasked with masterminding.

Minerva slid the parchment out of the envelope and detached Albus's note before settling down to read the bequests. From the look of things, the headmaster had not made many, so hopefully it would be blessedly easy to act out his final wishes. She skimmed over the formulaic preamble and read the first thing that Albus had signed away.

_To Professor Minerva McGonagall, I leave the headship of Hogwarts School of Witchcraft and Wizardry. _

Minerva's eyes narrowed, puzzled. Surely the headship was not something that Albus could claim as his own to give away like this in the first place? The head was voted upon by the board of governors, and the deputy acted in lieu for however long it took to find a replacement. She traced her fingertips over the words, wondering if there had perhaps been some mistake, and she gave an audible yelp when more writing revealed itself under her touch, minute red script included as annotations to the text.

_No, there is no mistake Minerva. Please excuse the secrecy in communicating like this so unexpectedly, but I am sure that you will discover these notes that I have hidden just in case the Ministry takes it upon itself to intervene. Back to the Will: I know what you are thinking and no, there is no mistake. Whilst in their tenure, the head of Hogwarts is technically in physical possession of the post and can therefore pass it on like this if they so wish. Such an action is frowned upon and has not been performed for many years due to the preference of previous heads to retire before their deaths, but I can assure you that it is perfectly legal. DO NOT GIVE UP THE HEADSHIP WITHOUT A FIGHT, MINERVA! It is rightfully yours and I know that you will know what to do with it when the time comes. _

Minerva lifted her fingers from the parchment and the writing disappeared. She was completely confused by Albus's posthumous message and she looked to the headmaster's portrait for clarification, but he was asleep once more. She pressed her lips together, lost in thought, and she wondered whether Albus would have been able to tell her anything more had he been awake anyway. There was something about the desperate tone of urgency in the message, and again about its haphazard secrecy – there was always the chance that she might not have discovered it – that made her wonder. Perhaps this was something that she needed to work out by herself; perhaps that was the whole point. Maybe it was a test of some sorts. Minerva shook her head and continued to read. There was no point in getting distracted by puzzles now; she could think about it later once the task at hand was complete.

The next bequest was the contents of Albus's Gringotts' vault. A sizeable proportion was set aside for the upkeep and maintenance of the school, and the rest was left to St Mungo's hospital. A small token gift had also been left to each of the Hogwarts staff. Knowing that under both muggle and wizarding law, a person could not ostensibly profit from their crime, it made Minerva a little sad to realise that Severus would not be allowed to receive his share; but then again, Albus had in all probability made arrangements for this eventuality before his death. She wondered at the former headmaster's ability to plan some details so thoroughly and to leave others unsatisfactorily unexplained. Minerva ran her fingertips across the letters to see if there was any hidden message behind them, but Albus had obviously thought that this particular section was to be taken at face value and needed no further explanation, unlike the next, rather more sobering bequest.

_To Mr Harry James Potter, I leave the sword of Godric Gryffindor that he pulled from the Sorting Hat four years ago. I hope it will prove useful as a letter opener if nothing else. _

The annotation was simple and chilling at the same time.

_I believe he will need it. _

The six words sent shivers down Minerva's spine. What possible reason could Harry have for requiring a sword, other than a rather dangerous letter opener? When the horribly unavoidable confrontation between Harry and Voldemort finally occurred, however much Minerva prayed that it would never come down to such, it would be a battle fought with wands and words, not weapons like this. Albus had still not let on everything that had occurred in the last few weeks leading up to his death, indeed the few memories that he had left her could not tell her everything that had happened in the last twelve months since he received his accursed injury. She would have to either work it out for herself or ask Albus when he next woke. _I believe he will need it. _It was not a solid statement. Albus had not said that Harry would definitely need the sword, only that he believed he would. Maybe he was unsure himself and simply trying to cover every eventuality. Whatever his reasoning, Minerva did not like the heavy implications that the bequest carried, and she wished that Albus had included a slightly more substantial explanation along with it. She glanced across to the sword, on display in the office as it had always been, rubies glittering in the soft candlelight as if they had flames of their own on the inside. Albus had always insisted on letting Harry try, on letting him form his own path and learn from the challenges and mistakes that he faced and fell down with as they occurred to him. He would never have been content to shepherd the boy in a pre-destined direction, and she knew from the memories that accepting that Harry would have to be made to return to Hogwarts by whatever means necessary, rather than being allowed to go off on his own to finish the work that they had started, had been difficult for the old man.

But the fact remained that Harry had to return to Hogwarts, and it was up to Minerva to persuade him to do so. She looked again at the sword, and she thought of the things that it had done; hard to imagine as it sat in the office so innocently. This sword had slain a basilisk; it had destroyed a powerful piece of dark magic, and it was being entrusted to a wizard who was not yet of age, or at least had not been at the time of the Will being written. Minerva shook her head, it was not that she did not trust Harry, after all, he was more than competent when it came to self-defence, but… Somewhere within her was an undeniably maternal feeling that made her want to protect this boy, one of her students and one of her house, from the dangers he faced, especially knowing what she did about what his future would hold. She wondered whether Albus would have had the same sort of reservations had he still been alive and in her position. She could not help but regret that Albus had not attached some sort of condition to Harry's possession of the sword, such as that he could only claim to own it for as long as it stayed within in the boundaries of Hogwarts. That could have helped her cause when she tried to coerce the boy into returning for his final year. Harry turned seventeen the next day, and Minerva knew that the longer she left it before making the inevitable journey to the Burrow to hold the inevitably unpleasant conversation, the more chance there was of the trio starting on their journey and losing contact with the Order.

The final entry on the parchment caught Minerva's eye and she forced her thoughts back to the task at hand. It would not do to get tangled up in her thoughts and leave something important, if bureaucratic, unfinished.

_To Professor Bathsheba Babbling, I leave the text 'Ethelburga's Eighth Untitled' in the hope that perhaps she can make more sense of it than I. _

Minerva raised an eyebrow; she had never heard of the work, but since it had been left to the ancient runes professor with a proviso for translation, then there was no wonder that she had not come across it within her own field. The only problem was that, having never heard of it, Minerva had no idea where she should start looking for it in order to give it to its new owner. Perhaps Albus had left a clue outside of the words, but as she drew her fingers over the single line of text, there was nothing.

Minerva closed her eyes and took a deep breath. Albus's office was a glory of clutter and it always had been. A book of runes could be hidden anywhere amongst the many tomes that were stored there. She was going to have to think logically. Minerva was not a scatterbrained person, far from it, and she was a clear and level-headed thinker, but when push came to shove, she was ultimately a Gryffindor and not a Ravenclaw, and she could not help but think that Filius would perhaps be better suited to this strange pseudo-game of hide-and-seek than she was. Still, she said to herself, giving up was worse than not having tried in the first place. If it got to the stage where she was on the verge of destroying the office in her search then she would know it was time to call in outside help. She paused, would it be such an irregular idea to ask for Bathsheba's assistance? Aside from Professor Binns, the ancient runes professor was now the longest-serving member of staff; she had first been employed by Professor Dippet in the same year as Albus himself had begun teaching. Whilst she had never been made part of the main core of staff – she had never held a head of house position and her subject was an optional one that ever fewer students were choosing to take – Bathsheba had undeniably had more contact with Albus by dint of their simply existing within the same walls together for so long. Minerva gave a shiver when she realised that, like Albus and Horace Slughorn, Bathsheba would have known Voldemort as a schoolboy.

"I believe that you will find what you're looking for in the third desk drawer," drawled a voice in her ear. Minerva turned to see Phineas Nigellus examining a non-existent stain on his robes in his frame. He presently looked up at her. "I am prepared to overlook your comments of two weeks ago and give you assistance out of the goodness of my heart, Minerva," he said, and Minerva raised an eyebrow, casting a quick glance at the looks that the other portraits were giving Phineas through half-closed eyes as they continued to feign sleep. They looked… threatening. She opened the drawer and rifled through the papers therein.

"It's under the 'Cheesecakes for Emergencies' recipe book," Phineas continued.

Not pausing to question quite _why_ Albus had such a recipe book, Minerva quickly located the text, hand written in tiny, spindly runes that Minerva could not decipher. She had studied the subject herself, up to Newt level in fact, but this script was one unlike any other she had ever seen. Only the title was discernible, written in undeniable English in Albus's distinctive hand. _Ethelburga's Eighth Untitled. _

"Thank you, Phineas," she said, wondering idly what the other heads had threatened the Slytherin with if he did not make amends. There was only one way to get to the bottom of the mystery.

A little while later, Minerva was sitting in Bathsheba's living room and the elderly witch was looking at the single sheet of parchment, surrounded by lexicons and pages of notes from her many decades of research. She had not spoken for the best part of ten minutes, but Minerva did not mind the silence. It allowed her to take in her surroundings. She had never visited Bathsheba in the holidays before and she had not really known what she should she should expect from the little cottage in the heart of the countryside, a stone's throw (or should that be quaffle's throw?) away from the Chudley Cannons' home quidditch stadium. It was no secret in the staffroom that Bathsheba was an avid Cannons supporter, and Minerva felt it was a shame that Ronald Weasley had not taken ancient runes, allowing both witch and wizard to find a similar kindred spirit with the same sense of slightly misplaced optimism.

The living room was decorated with faded cream wallpaper that had a slight sheen to it; it was only once she concentrated on it that Minerva realised that it was patterned with runes, the symbols constantly moving and only coming to a stop when stared at for a prolonged period of time. She tried to translate the nearest sentence. Something about tickling trolls' toes…

"Well, I think I've worked it out," said Bathsheba hesitantly. "It's a very, very old script, older than the oldest runes I teach, which are in their very nature ancient." She paused. "Minerva, you're never going to believe this."

"What is it?" the younger witch moved over to the ancient runes professor and looked over her shoulder at the still incomprehensible text.

"Minerva, it's a _knitting pattern_."

The two witches looked at each other for a moment before bursting into laughter. Unfortunately, the soberness of the situation caught up with them, and the moment of mirth was shortlived.

"I know Albus knew I liked knitting, and I know he collected knitting patterns, but why would he leave me one?" Bathsheba murmured. "There must be more to it than that. It's a very complicated pattern; so many different balls of wool needed… There's only one way to find out. I shall simply have to knit it and see what I end up with."

It was only as Bathsheba turned the parchment over that Minerva realised that, like with the Will, there was something more to the text. As her fingers brushed over the title, a familiar red script flashed into being, a message that was as ominous as it was barely comprehensible.

_The best kept secrets are hidden in plain sight. _

Minerva could come to only one conclusion: there was an awful lot more to Albus's Will than met the eye…

* * *

**Note2: **The ancient runes professor was never named in the books; I got her name from the HP Lexicon (although there seems to be confusion over whether it is spelt Bathsheba or Bathsheda) and then just ran with her character.

**Personal Note: **NCD, if you do not pick up on the WW reference I put in there for you I will be most disappointed.


	10. Birthday Surprises

**Note: **Phew! This Monday update nearly didn't come! It's a long story. I was planning to get this chapter finished on Sunday, but at the last minute (half past nine on Saturday evening) I decided to go and see the seventh film instead. This would not be so much of a problem, but in order to see the seventh film in English (I am currently resident in Germany) necessitates an hour and a half train journey to the next city, so the trip took most of the day… Anyway, I greatly enjoyed the film, and as such, have a double bill because I am in a generous mood.

**Note2: **I don't particularly like writing in flashback so I avoid it as much as I can, but I had a very specific idea for how I wanted this chapter to end, and to that end I have used flashback. It will not be a regular feature.

Probably self-explanatory but the flashback sequences are italicised.

* * *

**Chapter Ten**

**Birthday Surprises**

Harry was inclined to say that this had perhaps been one of the worst birthdays that he had ever experienced in his seventeen years of being, and that was saying something. On the face of it, it should have been pretty good. Yes, there was a war going on, a war that, ostensibly, he was at the heart of. Yes, he was wanted dead by the most evil being to walk the planet. Yes, he had been set the seemingly impossible task of finding and destroying four horcruxes, and his only allies in this mission were Ron, Hermione and Professor McGonagall. Not that Professor McGonagall really counted as an active ally, but at least she was aware of the situation.

Despite all of the negative points, however, Harry's coming-of-age in the magical world should not have been quite as turbulent as it had been. He thought back to the other birthdays that he had experienced. His eleventh was, of course, a high point. There were still times when Harry wondered if his first visit to Diagon Alley had been a dream, even after all these years and so many return visits to the street. He could still clearly recall the wonder and amazement with which he had looked in the windows, immersing himself completely in the strange and fantastical new world that he had just been told, in a rather spectacular fashion, that he was a part of. It was a memory that never failed to make him smile and marvel; one of the strongest ones that he could fall back on to conjure his patronus with.

The next year had not been quite so brilliant, what with Dobby's impromptu visit and all the repercussions that it had entailed, but in hindsight, after everything that Harry had experienced and survived since that fateful day, it paled into insignificance. None of his other birthdays spent at the Dursleys were particularly pleasant, but even they had not been like this one.

Oh yes, it should have been a fairly good birthday despite the tentative and tremulous situation that was going on beyond the protection that the Burrow afforded him. He was a legal adult in the magical world now, and he was celebrating with friends, no, people he honestly considered to be _family_. Mrs Weasley had baked him a cake in the shape of a Snitch. (He wasn't supposed to know about that but Ron, made suspicious by his mother's squirreling herself away in the kitchen and refusing entrance to everyone, had roped him into a joint espionage mission and they had found out as a matter of course. Thankfully, pure coincidence had meant that Hermione had called them back before Mrs Weasley had caught them snooping; Harry did not like to think of the consequences that would arise if Mrs Weasley knew that he knew that she had baked him a cake in the shape of a Snitch.)

Harry should have known that his birthday was not going to be quite the celebration that he had anticipated from the moment that Hermione had forcibly reminded him of their tenuous mission. Having woken up fairly early, something that was not quite excitement preventing him from going back to sleep, Harry and Ron had spent a happy hour and a half taking full advantage of the fact that Harry was a 'free wizard' as Ron called it, summoning and banishing and lifting and descending and performing all number of banal and nigh-on useless spells in a brilliant, colourful and noisy display of magic that was no longer being monitored by the Ministry, which would have woken the entire house had it not been for Harry's timely remembering of a silencing spell before the fanfare had begun in earnest. They could quite happily have gone on like that all day, but then Hermione had entered to tell them breakfast was ready.

"_Can't you knock?" asked Ron, shooting his bedroom door a pointed look, as if it was all its fault that Hermione had been able to enter unannounced. "I mean, we might not be dressed."_

"_I am sure, Ron, that such an occurrence would be far more damaging to Hermione than you," called Ginny as she passed, but she was already down the stairs before Ron had a chance to make any sort of reply. _

"_We need to start planning," Hermione said, ignoring Ron's indignation and settling herself on the end of his bed. "Now that Harry's of age…"_

"_Steady on! Let him enjoy being seventeen for a bit first!"_

_Hermione looked around at the magically-created mess that covered every available surface in the room, no doubt coming to the conclusion that Harry had been enjoying being seventeen far too much already. _

"_The problem is," she continued, unperturbed, "is that we really don't know all that much about horcruxes. There was nothing in the library when I looked."_

"_Well that's probably because Dumbledore took all the relevant books out of the library to stop anyone else having similar ideas to Tom Riddle," said Harry. Hermione gave him a look that she had been patenting for most of the time that he had known her. It was part exasperation and part incredulity._

"_I'd already guessed that, but when I tried to get the books out of Dumbledore's office…"_

"_You tried to steal books out of Dumbledore's office?" Ron's voice held both admiration and worry._

"_They're library books anyway, Ronald! And besides, there was no sign of any horcrux books in there, so we're back to square one. We don't know where they are and we don't know how to destroy them." Hermione paused for breath but before Harry could interject that he knew how to destroy a horcrux because he had done it before already, she began again. "Yes, I know that you used a basilisk fang, but we don't exactly have any of those to hand at the moment, do we?"_

"_That's a point," said Ron, vanishing the last of the coloured streamers with a flick of his wand. "Do we know how Dumbledore managed to destroy the ring? I mean, he'd be unlikely to be able to get into the Chamber of Secrets for a basilisk fang, unless there's something he's not been telling us all these years."_

_Harry thought it was perfectly plausible that there was something that Dumbledore was not telling them; after all, this mission that they had been tasked with was looking to be virtually impossible, with new hurdles springing up at every opportunity. But, despite everything, despite the enormity of what they had undertaken and the challenges that they were going to face, Harry still trusted Dumbledore implicitly. There had to be a reason for everything, and if there was a reason for Harry to find out these things on his own, without Dumbledore's guiding hand, then so be it. He would do so. _

_He shook his head in answer to Ron's question, and his friend shrugged his shoulders with a telling expression. Harry knew that Ron would not regret or go back on his decision to join him on the quest, but he knew that he would be the one to keep them firmly grounded in grim reality – there were four horcruxes out there somewhere, which they had no idea how to get to and no idea how to destroy. The words were true, however unpleasant._

"_Are you three coming down for breakfast or not?" Mrs Weasley appeared in the doorway, looking a little exasperated. "The eggs are going cold and we've got company." Her expression softened slightly when she saw Harry, still with wand in hand. "Happy birthday Harry dear."_

They had gone down to breakfast after that, resolving to return to planning later, and Ron had earned himself a clip round the ear from his mother when he suggested that they could simply keep the eggs warm by magic and no-one would be any the wiser. Harry had been surprised to find Professor McGonagall sitting at the kitchen table with a cup of tea; indeed he had almost forgotten that she was a part of the Order, much less the person at its head. He had not seen her since the night in which she had brought him to the Burrow, and he had presumed that Hogwarts matters had taken up her time. As he had seen her serious expression though, he had known that perhaps that was not all she had been doing in the intervening two weeks.

"_Happy birthday, Harry," the headmistress began as Mrs Weasley piled eggs and bacon onto his plate and offered the same to the professor, who declined politely. "I take it that you are enjoying being of age?"_

_She was staring at a point somewhere around his left ear, and it was only then that Harry realised there was pink fluff still growing out of it as a result of one of Ron's spells. He hastily got rid of it and tried to ignore Professor McGonagall's amused smile. All too soon, however, that twitch had faded and the grave visage had returned. _

"_Mr Potter, Mr Weasley, Miss Granger; there is something that I would like to discuss with you, but first and foremost with Mr Potter. I am sorry that it has to be today, ostensibly a day for celebration, but I fear that it cannot wait."_

_The slight feeling of foreboding that had been settling in the pit of Harry's stomach ever since he had first entered the room to find his professor there began to grow exponentially larger with every word that she spoke. When the tight feeling in his throat finally allowed him to choke down the majority of his breakfast, they left the room by mutual consent and settled in the living room. _

_Professor McGonagall did not begin immediately, as if she was taking a moment to gather her thoughts and choose her words carefully. _

"_Mr Potter," she finally began, "Professor Dumbledore has left you something in his Will. As the Executrix, I feel duty bound to give it to you."_

_Harry did not have to wonder long about what Dumbledore might have left him and why, because at that point a long, slim package appeared in Professor McGonagall's hands. _

_It was the sword of Gryffindor. Even obscured by the layers of soft cloth and leather that it was wrapped in for safekeeping, its shape was obvious. _

"_I trust that you know what this is, Mr Potter," Professor McGonagall began again. Harry went to take it, his heart beating fast in his mouth. This must be it. This must be what Dumbledore had used to destroy the ring. He thought about the ruined artefact, with the crack up the centre of the stone that could have been caused by the blade of the sword striking it. This was what he needed to destroy the horcruxes, and this was why Dumbledore had left it to him. He gripped a hand around the sheathed blade, but the headmistress did not relinquish her hold. _

"_Potter, this is not a birthday present. It is not a toy. It is not even merely a sword. It is a magical artefact with power that neither you nor I could ever hope to fathom. Albus… Professor Dumbledore left it to you for a reason, a reason that I only realised myself this morning, and I expect you to use it sensibly for that reason." She tugged the sword away from his grip. "To that end, I am going to keep it in the head's office in Hogwarts, for the time being at least."_

"_But it's mine!" Harry protested, fully and horribly aware of how much like a spoilt child he was sounding. _

"_Technically Mr Potter, it is still Godric Gryffindor's and can be wielded or used by anyone of his family; anyone of his house being included within that purview, but I'll overlook that fact. Besides, I only said that I would keep it with me for the time being." She paused for a moment, lost in a deep thought, before calling Ron and Hermione into the room. They settled themselves on the sofa, one either side of Harry like peculiar bodyguards. _

"_Miss Granger, Mr Weasley, I am fully aware that you intend to aid Mr Potter in carrying out Professor Dumbledore's last instructions to him, and that you are planning on spending the foreseeable future hunting for horcruxes. However, I would like to take this opportunity to try and dissuade you from such a course of action." She paused. "You are two wizards and a witch, and despite your brilliance and capability, you are barely of age and you will be three against an army of hardened fighters with hardly any moral reservations. You must also think of the repercussions for your families if you disappear into the wilderness. What will happen to them?" _

_She paused, and Harry tried to formulate something coherent to say from the angry jumble of thoughts in his head. On seeing his no-doubt indignant expression, Professor McGonagall seemed to soften slightly._

"_Harry, I know that this is your fight, but no-one said that you had to fight it alone."_

_She rose to leave and the sword vanished. _

"_Please consider what I have said carefully. If, after everything, you believe that going off on your own is the only way, then I cannot stop you, and I will let you have the sword to aid you in your quest. But please, for everyone's sake, _think_."_

So, melancholied by the foreboding words, Harry had thought. He had considered all the possible outcomes that he could think of, he had considered the advantages and drawbacks, but as dinner time rolled around, he had been unable to come to any sort of a conclusion.

_There was something different about the dinner table, and it took a moment for Harry to realise that it was the lack of Mr Weasley. This was, from the almost palpable air of tension in the room, not an expected absence. They waited for a while before Mrs Weasley had served, but no-one had been in the mood to eat, not with such an unknown hanging over them. _

_An hour and a half later, there was the sound of an apparition in the garden, but it was not Mr Weasley. Moody had stumped into the kitchen with Lupin, panting heavily. _

"_The Death Eaters have got him," he said gruffly. "Arthur's been taken."_

_Harry's insides turned to ice. He thought about Mr Weasley, about all the conversations on mundane aspects of the muggle world that had so fascinated him…_

Gradually, Harry managed to drag himself back to the terrible present, and he looked around at the gathered Weasleys. Fred and George were arguing vehemently with Moody, trying to convince him to let them go on a rescue mission that evening, but Harry could not hear the words. It was as if he was watching a television on mute. Ginny had run from the room with her face buried in her hands after the news had come through, and Harry had been in two minds about running after her when Hermione's hand on his arm had stopped him, and he trusted her warning look that, as a fellow girl, she knew what Ginny was feeling and that she would not want to see anyone whilst she was feeling it.

Ron had not moved for the past few minutes. He was simply looking grey, staring straight ahead but not seeing, his face a sickly mask of horror, but it was Mrs Weasley who caused him the most pain. She was pacing up and down the kitchen, waving her wand in various directions but achieving nothing more than creating more disorder out of the once-cheerful chaos that had reigned in the Burrow. Her face was nothing short of tragic, and presently she stopped what she was doing to hug her arms around her chest, as if she was physically trying to hold herself together for the sake of her family and friends. Harry thought about everything that she had endured, of all the hardships that she had had to lead her family through: first Ginny in the chamber of secrets, then the loss of Percy to the Ministry machine, then Arthur's attack, Ron's poisoning, Bill's face… There seemed to be no end to the trauma that the Weasleys had suffered in the time that Harry had known them, but this undoubtedly had to be the worst.

_Arthur's been taken. _

Not only did they not know where he was or whether he was dead or alive, they did know that he had been taken by the Death Eaters, and he had been taken with a purpose in mind.

Harry felt sick. Too many people had died on his account already – Cedric, Sirius, Dumbledore… He was not going to let anyone else die, especially not Arthur Weasley. He thought back to Professor McGonagall's words earlier in the day. Perhaps it would be safer for everyone if he went back to Hogwarts. But on the other hand, if he didn't find the horcruxes, then Voldemort would simply get stronger and stronger until no-one would be safe anymore, no matter where he went.

_Arthur's been taken. Arthur's been taken. Arthur's been taken. _

The words seemed to play themselves on a loop in his head as he continued to take in the devastated expressions of the family.

Yes, this had definitely been one of the worst birthdays that he had ever experienced.

* * *

**Note3: ** Can someone please explain to me how come the hardest chapters to write (IE this one) always end up being the longest? But I am rather impressed with myself; I managed to write 2,000 words in two hours this morning.

I'd better get on lest the author's notes be longer than the chapter itself. Onwards to chapter eleven!


	11. Same Time, Same Place

**Note: **Erm, nothing much to say for once. Enjoy today's second offering!

* * *

**Chapter Eleven**

**Same Time, Same Place**

_Same time, same place._

The familiar spidery handwriting that the four simple words were written in seemed to convey the urgency of the message without needing to understand the letters themselves. Minerva stared at the note that she had plucked from the windswept owl as it battled its way into the head's office against the gale force winds that seemed to have suddenly sprung up from nowhere. It was as if the weather itself knew the mood that had fallen over the Order in the wake of Arthur's capture, and had altered accordingly in sympathy with them. She read the words over and over again, trying to work out whether she should be feeling hope or foreboding at the promise of more information to come. On the one hand, perhaps Severus knew Arthur's whereabouts and was going to tell her how to launch a rescue operation. After all, he had told her last time, in a roundabout way, that it was time to move Harry whilst the Death Eaters were otherwise occupied.

On the other hand, he might be bringing news of precisely what had happened to Arthur, and Minerva did not want to think of the one very obvious possibility that was hanging over them.

_He can't be dead, Minerva. He can't be dead; he was taken for a reason and if you know Arthur, which you do, then you'll know that he won't have given in after only a few hours. _

Minerva felt her courage return with her internal pep-talk and straightened her spine from where she had been slumped in her chair as she read the note and let the events of the day catch up with her. There had been nothing for two weeks; in the fortnight since she had taken Harry to the Burrow everything had been eerily silent. Minerva cursed her laxity; _of course_ Voldemort must have been planning something, how could he not have been? She had simply been too relieved by the lack of activity and the opportunity for respite that she had not paid attention to what this period of unusual stillness might mean for the Order. She had to remain one step ahead of their foes, and it was no easy task.

Minerva sighed, trying to shake the horrible feeling of responsibility that was creeping up her spine with an unnatural chill. It was so easy to think that she was alone in the world and in charge of everything, but the guilt that went with such an outlook was crippling at times like this, when something went wrong. She had to force herself to remember that the Order was composed of responsible adults who knew what they were doing, what they were letting themselves in for and the dangers that they might face as they fought for the resistance. But still… She was in charge, and she should have looked out for the safety and wellbeing of her fellows instead of letting them get kidnapped in the Ministry atrium of all places. Arthur had nearly been home, just a few more moments and he would have disapparated to the safety of the Burrow, but the Death Eaters had been too quick for him. The Ministry had betrayed its own, as infected with the rot of dark magic as it was.

"Minerva, there was nothing you could have done to prevent it," said Albus gently.

"There's always something, Albus," Minerva snapped in return. "Nothing is as completely inevitable as Sybil Trelawney likes to make out."

The words sounded ridiculous as soon as they had come out of her mouth, for Minerva knew that some things were indeed unavoidable. She had seen them with her own eyes. Thankfully, Albus tactfully chose not to remind her of this and instead turned his efforts to trying to pacify her inward-directed anger and shame.

"We will get Arthur back, Minerva. I swear. He has a remarkable capacity for survival. Look at the way he recovered from being attacked by Nagini the Christmas before last."

Minerva could only hope that the former headmaster was right. She glanced up at the clock; five minutes to nine.

"I had better go and find out what Severus has to say on the matter," she said, effectively ending the conversation that had barely begun between woman and portrait. Once again, there was so much that was being left unsaid in favour of the more pressing concerns of the living, but as irritating as the riddle of Albus's Will was, Minerva was far more preoccupied with finding and rescuing Arthur Weasley. Knitting patterns could wait indefinitely; people could not. At least she had finally worked out the significance of the sword of her own accord, and she took a moment out of her anger with herself over Arthur to be angry with herself over her obtuseness in not realising sooner that the sword was needed as a weapon against horcruxes. She shook herself to try and lift her mind out of its depressing downward spiral, but it was not quite as an effective gesture as she had been hoping it would be.

Minerva nodded a courteous goodbye to Albus and hurried out of the castle, disapparating as soon as she had crossed the boundary of the grounds. Rematerialising in the heart of the capital, Minerva wondered if Severus had had prior knowledge of the kidnap, and if he had, why he had not warned her. His words from the last time they had met echoed through her mind, and it was with great reluctance that she accepted that sometimes he could not tell her everything for fear of his own safety. As invaluable as a spy was to the Order, he was only invaluable for as long as he was undetected. As soon as the scant cover was swept away – Minerva had never asked just how he would have explained away their peaceful meeting the last time – then the whole insubordinate operation came to a screeching standstill.

She pulled herself out of her thoughts in time to see a familiar dark silhouette slide out of the shadows and fall into step beside her.

"Minerva, what type of biscuits do you keep in your tartan tin?"

"Ginger Newts." Minerva sighed as she tried to think of some kind of question to establish Severus's identity. As necessary as the preamble was – they could not afford to lose yet another member of the Order within just a few hours – Minerva hated it. She supposed that it was because she was normally used to simply transforming and being done with it, but of course that was impossible in the middle of a muggle street. After Severus had correctly told her what she gave him for Christmas during his first year of teaching, they both spoke simultaneously.

"Arthur Weasley's been taken."

Their eyes met for a moment, and although Minerva knew that she would not find anything within the black depths, that did not stop her from trying.

"Did you know it was going to happen?" she asked.

"No. I knew that something was going to happen but the Dark Lord has been noticeably more secretive since Potter escaped his clutches two weeks ago. He is testing me."

There was no emotion behind the statement, not the slightest hint of fear. Minerva wondered what it must be like, whether living under constant suspicion simply inured one to fear and one learned how to control it. Maybe Severus was truly unafraid of the consequences of his exposure. Minerva shook her head; that would not be logical. Some sense of fear, or at least self-preservation, would be what made him so good at his task. If he did not care for his safety, then he would not try to be so careful to cover his tracks. She would probably never know his thoughts, but she knew that she would be constantly nervous in his position.

There were so many things that Minerva wanted to ask, and she had no idea which question she should field first. Nothing seemed to be settling itself into priority order, everything seemed just as important to know as the next thing.

"Why?" she asked finally. "Why did this happen? Arthur is not the most obvious choice for a kidnap; he has no great influence at the ministry."

She knew the answer before Severus spoke it.

"He is close to Potter," he said. "The Dark Lord wishes to know Potter's whereabouts and he believes that Arthur will tell him."

"Arthur would never betray Harry."

"You and I know that, Minerva, but not everyone does."

There was silence for a moment, broken only by the steady beat of their footsteps, one tread light and the other heavy.

"Can you tell me where he is?" Minerva asked presently. "Could we rescue him?"

"No."

Never had a single syllable contained so much meaning. Both questions answered in the negative. Severus could not tell her where Arthur was, and he could not be rescued. But the precise reason for the answer remained unknown. Did Severus not know where Arthur was being held captive or was he unable to tell her for fear of the possible repercussion? Why, exactly, could they not rescue him? Her previous fear flickered through her mind and it evidently showed on her face, for Severus spoke again.

"He is still alive, and rest assured that I will do everything in my power to keep him that way."

Minerva's heart leapt to her mouth. If that was the case, then surely, surely…

"You know where he is?" she said, trying to mask the anticipation that was trying to make itself known in her voice. Her question was met with silence. "Severus," she persisted, "do you know where he is?"

They stopped in the centre of the bridge, much like they had done the last time, and Severus looked at her.

"Your problem, Minerva," he began coolly, "is that you think too much like a Gryffindor. The first thought that crosses your mind at this juncture is that of rescuing Arthur Weasley above all else."

Minerva drew herself up indignantly.

"And why should it not be?" she hissed. "He is as valuable a member of the Order of the Phoenix as you are, Severus."

"Yes, and rescuing him would be suicide."

"You do know where he is then," Minerva snapped. All she wanted to do was find out where Arthur was being held. She would make her decisions later, when she was in a better frame of mind, better informed. As long as she knew where Arthur was, then she could plan to her heart's content.

"Yes, Minerva, I know where Arthur is being held." There was a sigh in Severus's voice. "But no, I am not going to tell you."

Minerva had never been a violent woman, but she felt the sudden urge to strike Severus for his, his… she didn't even know what it was that he had done.

"Why not?" she asked through gritted teeth.

"Because it is more than my life is worth," Severus shot back. "The Dark Lord is already at the end of his patience with me, he is already suspicious and I know for a fact that he is testing my loyalty. Your rescuing Arthur Weasley just hours after his capture will prove the final straw that breaks the camel's back, Minerva."

Minerva did not reply, for she had just seen something in the deep, seemingly soulless wells of Severus's eyes. For the briefest flicker of a moment, so tiny and near-imperceptible that the untrained eye would have missed it, a minute spark of fear appeared there.

"Minerva, I have already said that I will do all I can for Arthur, but I cannot tell you where he is." He paused. "We will find a way. We will get him back, Minerva, I swear."

The words, echoing those that Albus had spoken to her in the office just a few moments before, were too much for Minerva. She shook her head, not knowing what to say, not know what to do. She knew that all she could do was to trust Severus, but at what cost? How long would they leave Arthur in the lurch? He trusted them, the Order, to look out for him; they could not let him fall into the hands of the enemy and then as good as forget about him.

She vaguely heard Severus say his apologies and goodbyes. She vaguely felt his presence leave as she slowly sank into her anger and helplessness. Finally, she remembered where she was and regained enough control over her thoughts to disapparate away towards safe cover.

As soon as she arrived back at the Hogwarts boundaries, she transformed.

Minerva ran up the path from the gates, taking advantage of the agility of her animal form, concentrating solely on the movement and nothing else, keeping her mind as far away from the anguish that she was feeling as possible. She had never before seen the slightly more simple thought patterns of the tabby as a way of escaping from the pain and responsibility of her human life, but now she knew that if she did not perform some damage limitation now, then she would fall under the weight of the emotion that was crushing her; collapse in the middle of the grounds and not get up again. She had gone for so long without breaking, but now it had proved too much. To have come so close, only to be met with a brick wall…

She ran through the entrance hall, thinking only of putting one paw in front of the other until she reached her destination. She paused to get her breath back outside the door that she was seeking, and she knew that it was time. The moment of escape had been short, but it had been enough to get her back to the castle in one piece. It was time to face the torrent of anger and frustration, and moreover it was time to share some of the oppressive emotions. How many times had she told her students, stressed to the point of breaking down, that a problem shared was a problem halved?

_Minerva, no-one expects you to win this war by yourself, _she told herself crossly, and then she retransformed. Tears pricked her eyelids and the cloak of misery that she was feeling seemed to settle tangibly on her shoulders. She knocked on the door with frantic urgency, bending double against the ache in her side – she had not realised quite how far she had run.

"Minerva, whatever is the matter?"

Poppy Pomfrey's alarmed voice echoed through the empty halls of the school as she grabbed the headmistress's shoulders to prevent her falling into the hospital wing.

"Oh Poppy," Minerva gasped, feeling the hot tears of fear, exasperation and weeks' worth of pent up emotions pouring down her cheeks and knowing that she could do nothing to prevent their falling. "Poppy, if I don't talk to someone I'll go mad, and you were the first person I thought to turn to."

"There there," soothed Poppy, and although her tone was firm and friendly, Minerva could not help but notice the undercurrent of fear in her voice. "Come in, have a cup of tea and tell me what's going on."

She steered the headmistress into her office and into a chair, and Minerva took a deep breath to compose herself. She had had not bargained on her losing control of her emotions quite so suddenly or spectacularly, but she knew that Poppy would understand. She was one of her oldest friends, and Minerva was fairly sure that she had seen far worse displays from the students. She thought back to what Albus had said in his first note: _How much of this information you choose to share, and with whom, is left entirely to your own discretion. _Just as Albus trusted her, Minerva would trust Poppy Pomfrey with her life, and someone who had earned such trust deserved to know the whole of the truth that they were being trusted with.

As Poppy pressed a cup of tea into her shaking hands, Minerva began to tell her everything that had happened since she first received Albus's letter…

* * *

**Note2: **Minerva finally has an ally in her quest!

(Now that I have reached the end of today's update, I would like to take a moment to enthuse about the film, namely in this one quote (probably not an exact word for word match, but the gist is there).

"Dobby did not mean to kill. Dobby only meant to maim, or seriously injure, not kill."

Normally I have no time for Dobby but that line is something else. In fact, I was in stitches for the majority of that scene. Brandy anyone? *Kimmeth observes her readers looking perplexed.* Ah, yes, erm, enthusing over. I hope you enjoyed the new chapters, and I swear I will calm down soon!)


	12. An Auror's Lot

**Note: **Early morning update! Well, early morning for me, anyway. I needed something to cheer me up in this godforsaken SNOW! (There's a veritable blizzard outside my window at the moment and I have to go out in it in twenty minutes…)

**Note2: **So here I decided to divert from the main action *slightly* in order to take a look at Tonks, Remus, and the way that the Ministry is coping as it slowly limps ever closer to its demise. Enjoy!

* * *

**Chapter Twelve**

**An Auror's Lot**

Tonks stared down at the pile of official but ultimately useless forms that were taking up an inordinate amount of space on her desk and gave a muted sigh of frustration. When she had first signed onto the Auror training programme however many years before, she had never expected that her chosen vocation could ever be boring, or disappointing, but she was rapidly being proved spectacularly wrong. Vexed, she slammed her bright pink quill point-downwards into her desk, hoping to emulate the nifty trick that Kingsley had showed her many times before, but in her ire she used slightly too much force and so instead of standing straight up, the nib shattered into several pieces. Tonks moaned and rested her head on the pile of papers; not having the heart to mend the broken quill and carry on as if nothing had happened. How could they carry on as if nothing had happened when Arthur was who-knows-where having who-knows-what done to him? The Ministry had barely acknowledged that one of its employees had been missing for two and a half weeks. Two and a half weeks… Tonks shuddered at the thought of it and once more cursed the head of the Auror Office. John Dawlish had been on the receiving end of numerous oaths from Tonks for the past fortnight. What was the point of being an Auror, a force for good against the dark witches and wizards of the world, when she couldn't even rescue those closest to her from peril? Which idiot had decided to make Dawlish head of the Auror Office anyway? One of You-Know-Who's lackeys no doubt; with the speed at which they were infiltrating the Ministry, Tonks was fairly sure that soon she and Kingsley were going to be the only vaguely respectable people left. She sighed once more, emphatically, and repaired the quill in order to try again, but the same result occurred. It was all Dawlish's fault, she thought darkly, seeking to blame everything on the man.

As skilled a wizard as he was, Dawlish was slightly too fond of paperwork and, tragically, he was very wary of the phenomenon known to all as 'Auror's Instinct'. He insisted on doing everything by the book, even if every fibre of his underlings' beings was screaming otherwise. Naturally, investigating Arthur Weasley's disappearance was not a priority for Dawlish, and therefore it was not a priority for his Aurors. Tonks and Kingsley could only do what they were able to in their own time; their working hours being taken up with mundane office tasks. Tonks could have sworn that there was never this much paperwork when Scrimgeour had been in charge.

Contrary to popular belief, Rufus Scrimgeour had been an excellent boss for Tonks. He was a hard taskmaster, yes, but he had quickly earned the young Auror's respect. He genuinely knew about his work and he always, always trusted his instincts. He had also had some semblance of a sense of humour when he could be bothered (Tonks vividly remembered the incident in which she had found a pair of ladies' stockings in his waste-paper basket one morning and he made no attempt to either find the culprit or stop the rumour mill). It was a shame that this powerful sense of right and wrong and the seemingly effortless ease with which he commanded and controlled his forces had not been carried over into his new position as Minister. He had been taken over by politics, and the Auror within had been all but forgotten.

"You're being too vehement," came a deep voice from somewhere above Tonks' ear, and a pheasant feather quill dropped into her desk, standing up perfectly vertically. "You need to be firm, but friendly. You don't want to stab the table to death."

"Hi Kingsley," said Tonks gloomily without looking up. "You're right. I don't want to stab the table to death. I'm reserving that fate for Dawlish."

Kingsley laughed, and finally Tonks deigned to look up at him, leaning over the partition that separated their two desks.

"It's not funny, Kingsley," she snapped. "We're _Aurors_ for crying out loud, if we can't find Arthur then who can? It's been sixteen days! Surely, surely _something_ must have happened by now!"

Kingsley's slight smile faded, for he knew that Tonks was right. Neither of them wanted to dwell on what might have happened. His gaze wandered over to the door at the end of the Auror office, the tiny room where Arthur had worked for countless years before his promotion last summer. Although the room had lain as good as empty for over a year, seeing the door every day reminded them forcibly of who they had lost, and how little they had been able to do to save him.

"We'll find him Tonks. We've ruled out quite a few places already. We're making progress."

"I know, I know." Tonks paused, not wanting to say what she was about to say but knowing that it was true. "As much as it pains me to say it, I wish we still had Snape on our side. He would have found Arthur in a jiffy."

Kingsley didn't reply, leaving Tonks to her thoughts. She had never fully trusted or distrusted Snape; it was hard to put one's faith in a man whose occupation revolved centrally around lies and deception, but she had never thought him capable of… _that_. She shrugged, it just went to show that everyone could be wrong at the best of times. Maybe Dawlish was right in not trusting his gut feelings. Tonks had been certain that Snape had ultimately been on their side; she had been certain that Dumbledore had known exactly what he was doing, and she had been proved wrong.

_Oh, pull yourself together, Nymphadora. No-one is infallible._

That was true, but when it came to her vocation, fallibility could prove to be a fatal undoing. It had proved to be Dumbledore's fatal undoing.

"If it makes it any better, I felt the same way," said Kingsley. "I too thought that, if push came to shove, he was trustworthy."

Tonks focussed back on the present.

"Was it really that obvious what I was thinking about?"

Kingsley nodded.

"It just makes no sense!" Tonks exclaimed, shattering the nib of her quill for a third time, much to Kingsley's visible chagrin. "If the terrible event hadn't already happened, I'd have said that it was out of character for him."

It was Kingsley's turn to shrug.

"What's done is done," he said firmly, and Tonks knew that this thread of conversation, as painful for both of them as it was to be reminded of a failing in their judgement, was closed. "I've been trying to cross some more places off our possible list. We've already established that it's unlikely for You-Know-Who to be using any of the old places that were originally suspected as his base of operations, so I've tried a new approach."

"Why don't we just look in all the places where he's least likely to be?" said Tonks. "We'd kick ourselves if we discovered him in Fortescue's cellar." Kingsley raised an eyebrow. "Sorry, I know, that's not exactly helping. I just don't know what to do, Kingsley!"

"Keep hoping," said Kingsley simply. "That's half the battle. Hope is what keeps us going. If we give up hope then we may as well give up completely, and then he's already won. Arthur's relying on us. I know it's not the best thing to be reminded of when we're no nearer to finding him than we were the evening he was first taken, but if we give up on him now then that's akin to abandoning him."

Tonks nodded. The words, although not the most constructive or pleasant to hear, were true. Tonks had never been one to adhere to Moody's old principle of leaving the dead behind. In Tonks's mind, no-one got left behind. She supposed it was her Hufflepuff instincts coming back to her – loyalty and solidarity would prevent her from turning her back on a comrade who needed assistance, even if it meant putting herself in danger to do so. She knew that she could never truly give up on Arthur, no matter how hard things got, no matter how much paperwork Dawlish piled on her desk.

"Tonks?" At first the young Auror did not notice the hissed voice, which seemed to be coming from her pocket. "Tonks, are you there? Nymphadora Tonks-Lupin!"

"Alright, alright…" Tonks recognised her husband's voice and flicked her head minutely towards Arthur's office. Kingsley nodded and disappeared back behind the partition as Tonks stood and made her way down the rows of desks, trying to be as inconspicuous as possible as she unlocked the empty room with a flick of her wand and sat down in the murky gloom within to pull out the mirror.

Remus, recognising the need for those employed at the Ministry to have a fairly untraceable method of communicating with the Order without their corrupted superiors knowing, had attempted to remake the mirror connection that James and Sirius had perfected during their time at Hogwarts. Unfortunately, he was not sure of the exact magic and had only been able to produce one such pair of mirrors; with Tonks keeping hold of one of the twins. It was a tenuous link, haphazard as to when it would function and with a tendency to cut off important news halfway through its being relayed, but it was better than nothing.

"Hey Moony," she said wearily. All of a sudden, the idea of going home to a warm bed and several hours of dreamless sleep seemed to be extremely inviting. "What's new?"

"Not much," admitted Remus, his reflection in the mirror rippling slightly, as if he was being seen through water rather than glass. The effect made Tonks feel rather sea-sick. "Is Kingsley there?"

"He's on his way," said Tonks.

"He's here," said Kingsley, squeezing into the office and perching on the desk next to Tonks, looking over her shoulder into the mirror. "Are you at the Burrow?"

Remus nodded.

"Yes. Apparently Harry tried another moonlight flit last night."

"Another?" Tonks sighed. Ever since Arthur had been taken, the guilt and anger had slowly been eating away at Harry. This would be the third time that he had tried to escape from the safety of the Burrow in order to do something, anything that would focus You-Know-Who's energies on him and persuade him to let Arthur go. Luckily, his leaving had been prevented on all of the occasions, but the Aurors and the other older Order members were petrified that one of these nights, he might succeed, and then they would have failed in the last task that Dumbledore had set them before his death – protect Harry, for he was the best hope they had.

"How far did he get this time?" asked Kingsley.

"Luckily he didn't make it past the front door. It appears that the Weasleys have set up a sort of watch to keep him from leaving the house. Ginny was on duty last night. Harry seems to listen to her more than the others."

"Ah, the feminine wiles," said Tonks with a grin. "You men really are simply too susceptible."

Kingsley laughed at the blush that began to rise in Remus's cheeks, and Tonks bit her lip to stop her succumbing to the same fate. Even in the midst of all the fear and worry, she could not help but give thanks that she was lucky enough to have a husband whom she loved to pieces and who loved her back with equal vehemence. It was strange though, thinking of herself as a married woman. It was always especially odd when she considered her name. Having always preferred to be called solely by her surname, it made her laugh when she realised that she was, in all reality, not called Tonks any more, and in time, people who met her would wonder where the odd nickname had come from. Still, she would far rather have exchanged her surname for Remus's than remain Tonks. In these uncertain times, it was always good to have something solid to cling to, and call her old-fashioned, but Tonks had wanted to make her relationship with Remus legitimate just in case the worst should come to pass. She had, as a girl, always held a morbid fear of dying a spinster, a fear that her adult self had laughed at. Until she met Remus, and she knew that she was going to hang onto him tooth and nail for as long as she lived.

"Earth to Tonks," said Kingsley. "And Remus. It's all very well having this method of communication but we'll never get on if you spend all your time lost in thought about each other. Here, give me that." Kingsley went to wrest the mirror from Tonks's grasp and that pulled her back into the present.

"Ok, ok, we'll behave," said Remus hastily. "I was really only calling to let you know that Hestia's been called away to something or other in Sussex so I'm cooking tonight."

Tonks nodded. Since Arthur's capture, the Order had, by silent and mutual consent, started to help out Molly in the Burrow, mainly with cooking for all the various people who turned up on the doorstep with news and reports on any given evening. Some of the attempts had been more successful than others, and although Tonks might tease him and transfigure his apron into a pink flowery monstrosity, she had secretly enjoyed discovering Remus's domestic streak.

"We'll be there," said Kingsley. "Till then."

"Till then."

Kingsley politely turned away as Remus mouthed 'I love you', and the mirror faded back to a reflection of the two Aurors just as the door to the office opened.

"Tonks? Shacklebolt?" It was Dawlish, his tone somewhere between confusion and anger. This was not the first time that he had found them in the office together, and it was clear that he suspected something, even if the something he suspected was a long way from the truth.

"We were looking for clues as to Arthur Weasley's disappearance," said Kingsley, smoothly cutting in to stop Tonks's mouth opening and closing as she floundered for something to say.

"In the dark?"

"Light can be deceptive," replied Kingsley easily, the statement laced with such cool charisma that Dawlish could not argue with it. He narrowed his eyes towards the Order members.

"I believe you are both behind in your paperwork," he said gruffly, before leaving the room and closing the door behind him. Tonks let out the long breath that she had been holding.

"We're going to have to be more careful," said Kingsley. "Luckily for us, Dawlish has about as much imagination as a flobberworm, but we can't fob him off forever."

Tonks nodded as they left the office. In the current climate, one could never be too careful. It was a mark of the terrible times when you couldn't even trust your own colleagues. She shook her head sadly. What she wouldn't give for it all to be over, for everyone to be free from fear once more, and moreover, for Arthur to be back in the Burrow safe and sound.

* * *

**Note3: **Onwards and upwards!


	13. Breakthrough

**Note: **Snow very nearly prevented a double bill. I hate snow: it's cold, it's wet, it grounds planes and it kills my creativity. Thankfully, I was pulled out of my mood thanks to the joint efforts of my best mate and a couple of men wearing fishnet tights… It's a really, really long story.

* * *

**Chapter Thirteen**

**Breakthrough**

Harry was fairly certain that he was dreaming. What gave him this impression was that he was certain that he had never seen this place before in his life. He was walking down a long drive towards an extremely imposing looking building, an ancestral manor by the looks of it: old and teeming with magic. If it had been a muggle building it would have been falling into disrepair with age. Everything about the house screamed of power, money, influence, but also something else. It took several seconds for Harry to realise what it was – fear. It was as if the very bricks of the house itself were afraid of something. In his dream, Harry felt a rush of power and success with this realisation, and he knew in that moment that the thing that the house was afraid of was him. He was once more seeing the world through Voldemort's eyes. After a year of blessedly quiet nights, free from this terrible influence, Harry wondered why the connection between their two minds had once more opened. He was immediately put on edge, wary – the last time this had occurred, Sirius… Harry didn't finish that thought, it was too painful. He knew that he could not let himself be taken in again. There must be a reason why he was suddenly in Voldemort's head once more, and he could not rule out the possibility that what he was seeing was not what was truly occurring.

He had reached the gates by this point, and he passed straight through them as if they were water. No spells required, no secret passwords or incantations. Was it any wonder that the house held so much fear of Voldemort if he could simply enter as he pleased like this?

There was a white shape on the path in front of him. At first Harry thought it might be a ghost, so pale and pearlescent as it was; it was only when he moved closer that he realised it was a patronus in the shape of a… was it a peacock? He raised his wand but it had already bolted towards the door of the house, a door that had opened of its own accord. Voldemort was angered by this. For whatever reason, he saw it as an act of insubordination. Harry looked around; his surroundings were still completely unknown to him, but there was something about the aura that the house carried that seemed familiar, that feeling of hastily and inadequately masked fear. He reached the door and entered the house with no preamble, no need to announce his presence. Why should he? He was the most powerful wizard known to mankind.

Once inside, his pace slowed, and this allowed Harry to take a proper stock of his surroundings. He could not make out much in the dark, but the impressive grandeur of the house's exterior was repeated on the inside. Something caught his eye in the gloom, a flash of silver, and he turned to see Wormtail hovering in a doorway off to one side. As snivelling as he had been the last time they had seen each other face to face, Harry felt a surge of anger, and the wizard whose mind he shared felt a spasm of disgust. How had such a pathetic specimen ended up in his service? He was not his primary concern. His intended goal lay beyond the door, where he could make out the faint glow of the patronus.

"_Wormtail."_

The undisguised bored contempt in the single word was enough to make the man move aside, and Harry moved through into the room beyond; evidently a drawing room from the furniture and décor. Two people were standing by the window, talking inaudibly, and the patronus stood sentinel like between them. Presently, they turned and the patronus faded suddenly from view, tendrils dispersing into the air as the courage and weak memory of happiness that had been sustaining it faltered. Had Harry been in control of his limbs, he would have taken a step backwards in surprise.

"_Lucius… Your patronus makes for an interesting guard dog. Does it really give you comfort to be forewarned of my arrival?"_

Lucius Malfoy, looking about a decade older than when Harry had last seen him, made no response, his eyes fixed on the brandy glass in his hand and purposefully not meeting those of his master. His wife, on the other hand, was watching him like a hawk, her stare wide and fearful like a fawn caught in the headlights. This, thought Harry, was where the house's fear stemmed from. The Malfoys were playing host to Voldemort's base of operations, and they were petrified.

He swept past the couple; they were not his primary concern either, but he looked back over his shoulder before he passed through the second door in the room, just in time to see Narcissa slip her arm through her husband's and lean into his shoulder in a gesture of reassurance. Cold disapproval flashed through his mind and he turned back towards his objective.

Harry lost all sense of orientation as he continued on his journey, through the door and along a near pitch black corridor. At some point he seemed to be going down steps, but he could not be sure. Presently he came to another door and swept through it. He was in the cellar of the house. Harry let his eyes get used to the light, or lack thereof, and then he saw it, a bundle slumped against one of the walls. Except, it was not a bundle. As Harry drew closer, he saw that the bundle had thin and greying red hair that was matted with congealed blood. It was Mr Weasley. After over two weeks without a word of his whereabouts, Harry had found Mr Weasley in the Malfoys' cellar. The older man gave a small groan as a hex from Voldemort's wand shocked him into consciousness.

"_I must say I admire your persistence, Arthur, but my patience is wearing very thin indeed. Have you decided that you are ready to talk, yet?"_

"_Never!"_

As weak and pained as his voice was, Harry was certain that he had never heard Mr Weasley sound so fierce.

"_Unfortunately Arthur, that was not the correct response."_

Harry wished that he could close his eyes and ears against the sight and sound of Mr Weasley's torture. He felt nauseous, on more than one count. In the first and foremost instance, the patriarch was suffering this because of him, because of Harry. He was taking this relentless brutality in order to protect Harry from further harm, and Harry couldn't stand it. Why did so many people have to die, have to suffer because of him? But he could not dwell on the thought for long, because the thoughts of the wizard who was truly wielding the wand kept intruding upon his own, and they were even more sickening. He felt the thrill of power that coursed through Voldemort's veins as he cursed the defiant wizard in front of him.

"_Where is Harry Potter? Where is he?"_

"_I will never betray him."_

Cold laughter echoed in his ears as the scene in front of his eyes began to black out; he could feel himself waking but the terrible laughter, laughter that was so awfully familiar, continued, rising to a crescendo until finally…

"Harry!"

"Harry, wake up!"

Harry's eyes shot open and he found himself staring up at the fuzzy forms of Ron and Hermione. He blinked a couple of times to reassure himself that he was awake and in the Burrow, and finally his surroundings became sharper as Hermione passed him his glasses. He became acutely aware of the fact that he was lying on something hard that was definitely not the bed he had gone to sleep in.

"Where am I?" he asked.

"The floor," said Hermione. Her face was pale and her eyes wide and worried, her gaze never leaving his. It was almost as if she was worried what he might do if she stopped watching him. Harry's heart leapt up to his mouth and began to beat a frantic rhythm there. What had he done whilst he had been unconscious? Had he truly taken on Voldemort's persona and started torturing the nearest bystander, cackling with that awful, cruel laughter as he asked repeatedly for his own whereabouts. The image was chilling as he thought about it, and a trickle of cold sweat ran down the back of his neck at that moment with impeccable timing.

"You went kind of rigid," said Ron, his face ultimately relieved but obviously still showing puzzlement at what had occurred. "Like a plank. I knew something was wrong so I tried to wake you up, but then you started shaking and fell out of bed. I've never seen anything like it, it was as if you were having a fit or something. I fetched Hermione, I thought she might know what to do, and then…"

Ron broke off, lost in the memory of the events that had occurred in the past few minutes.

"You started laughing," said Hermione quietly.

Harry didn't speak for a minute. The laughter he had heard had been his own. There was to be no denying it, no trying to ignore the vivid picture that he had received in his dreams. Whether he was only seeing what Voldemort wanted him to see, or whether the impromptu visit to the Malfoys' had been unintentional was of little importance. The fact remained that after almost a year of blissful silence in his sleep, the mental connection that Harry shared with the dark wizard was once more very much active, perhaps more so than before.

"It was Voldemort," he said. Hermione nodded slowly.

"We'd guessed as much," said Ron drily, but the faint humour was gone as soon as it had arrived. "What did you see?"

Harry shook his head, his senses still fuzzy from sleep despite the fact that within the dream, he had seemed so awake and so alert.

"I need to talk to the Order… We can't take the risk… Not like with Sirius."

"Everyone's downstairs," said Hermione. "Ron managed to make enough noise to wake the entire house when he came and woke me up; I just heard Lupin and Tonks arrive, and Kingsley and Moody were on watch tonight. But seriously Harry, what did you see?"

Harry didn't reply, but he could not help an unconscious glance sideways at Ron. Hermione picked up on the gesture immediately and nodded. She knew that he had found Mr Weasley.

"Come on," said Ron. "We'd better go down now that you're awake. Are you ok? You did hit your head quite hard."

It was only at that point that Harry felt the pain, throbbing in the back of his skull. He grimaced as he sat up and his head complained bitterly.

"I'll be fine," he said through gritted teeth, and together the trio made their way down the stairs towards the kitchen, where the Order members who had been alerted were gathered around the table whilst Mrs Weasley made cocoa with shaking hands. Tonks got up to help but Lupin pulled her down again, perhaps sensing that the clumsy young Auror's assistance would only make matters worse. Moody stared at Harry, his magical blue eye unmoving, and not for the first time since being introduced to the man, Harry wondered if he could see the very thoughts inside his head.

"Harry," said Lupin by way of greeting, inclining his head towards the free places at the other end of the table.

"Are you alright dear?" asked Mrs Weasley, pushing a cup of cocoa into his hands as he sat down. Harry ignored the scalding sensation as some slopped over the edge of the mug and onto his thumb. He nodded, despite the fact that his stomach was churning itself into knots. If what he had seen was the truth, then they had it, the breakthrough that they had needed for all these weeks, the final missing piece of the puzzle. If it was not what it seemed, then not only were they back to square one when it came to finding Mr Weasley, they would also be walking straight into a trap. Either way, the Order would be endangered whilst they tried to establish the veracity of the vision. Harry took a deep breath to clear his head.

"I think I know where Voldemort's keeping Mr Weasley," he said slowly. Behind him, he heard Mrs Weasley give a choked little gasp. "I'm wary because…"

"…Of what happened last time," Lupin finished smoothly, cutting in and ending that thread of conversation before it could move into more painful territory. "What did you see?"

As succinctly as he could, Harry relayed the tale of what had happened in the dream. When he reached the end of his explanation, the Burrow kitchen was silent for several minutes as the Order considered what he had said.

"I think what Harry saw was the truth," said Lupin hesitantly. "Unfortunately there is no real way to verify it without going to Malfoy Manor ourselves, which is no doubt what Voldemort would have wanted if he had sent a false image with specific intention."

"He could want Harry," said Moody gruffly. "Last time…"

"Last time, he wanted Harry to retrieve the prophecy," said Tonks. "What could there possibly be in the Malfoys' house that he would need Harry to get? That Harry _could_ get? All the really old houses are protected by ancient wards, only the owner can bypass them."

"He could simply want Harry himself," said Kingsley simply. "Lure him away to a place he doesn't know…"

"I don't think he wants Harry at all, for any purpose," said Lupin. "I think, if what Harry saw is not in fact true, he would be counting on Harry telling us and us being the ones to investigate. Surely he'd know that Harry wouldn't fall for the same trick twice, not after last time."

They were all consciously avoiding mentioning Sirius, but it was not helping. Harry could still feel his own stupidity laughing at him. Why had he believed Kreacher? Why had he gone off on his own?

"You never know," said Moody grimly. "Arrogance has been the downfall of many a wizard."

"I can't think why he would use such a complicated ruse though," said Tonks. "If he wants the Order, then it's easy enough to leave a false trail to try and catch us off guard. Not, of course, that accomplished Aurors such as ourselves would fall for such a false trail," she added hastily on catching Kingsley and Moody's somewhat affronted expressions, "but I still don't see why he would go to the trouble of using Harry as a means of communication."

Harry was about to take umbrage at the fact that he was there in the room with them and he did not like being talked about as if he was not there when Hermione spoke up, having remained silent and lost in thought for the duration of the conference.

"Well, there's only one way to find out," she said, "and that's to take the bait. I've had an idea…"

* * *

**Note2: **But what is this idea? All will be revealed soon enough…

**Note3: **If you thought the POV during the dream sequence was a bit confused as to whether it was Harry or Voldemort narrating, don't worry, that was intentional. I've never been really sure how the 'body-sharing-dream-type-thing' works, so this was my take on it.


	14. The Hunt Is On

**Note: **Welcome to today's Monday update! You'll be pleased to know that when there's over twelve inches of snow outside and I've spent six hours writing a French presentation and not even getting halfway through, I have a tendency to write out of sheer desperation. Anything to avoid French…

* * *

**Chapter Fourteen**

**The Hunt Is On**

Same time, same place. That seemed to be the story of Severus's life at the moment. For the second time in as many days he had found himself sitting at the long table in the centre of Lucius's drawing room, looking around at the faces of his comrades and wondering why he felt so fully and horribly out of place.

Although to the outsider there would seem to be little in the way of order to the layout of the room, the seating plan was in fact a delicately organised ballet, the symbolism heavy although for the most part unconscious and unknown to the participants. Severus, however, was acutely aware of the way that the Dark Lord's mind worked. The further one was down the table, the less important one was. Those on the left side were less trusted than those on the right, after all, they did always say that the second-in-command was the right-hand man, or woman in this case. It was obvious that the symbolism was also not lost on Bellatrix, whose visage was constantly switching between grinning wolfishly at the rest of the corps like the cat who had got the proverbial cream, and smiling simperingly at their leader, who thankfully seemed either immune to or completely ignorant of her affections. Severus risked a quick glance down the table at Rodolphus, sitting about three places down from his wife. His face was blank, a mask of calm, an automaton awaiting instruction, but his eyes gave him away. Years of perfecting the unforgiveable curses and further years' incarceration may have touched his mind but they had not changed Rodolphus Lestrange's eyes; still as deep and expressive as they had been as a young man barely out of school. Right now, they were brimming with barely concealable fury. If Severus didn't know better, he would say that their usual brown had indeed changed to the emerald of bitter jealousy. Rodolphus did not envy the Dark Lord his power; he envied him his place in his wife's heart.

The relationship between the Lestranges was too complicated a one for Severus to dwell on at that moment in time, not when he needed to be on his guard. He thought about his own place at the table; it seemed to change with every meeting he attended. At the moment he sat on the right, opposite the most trusted lieutenants; whilst the Dark Lord had made it clear that he was no longer as trusted as he was, Severus liked to think, grimly, that he was too important as a spy in the Order-and-Hogwarts (as interlinked as the two inevitably were) camp to be let too far out of sight. He looked further down the table, towards their slightly less than willing host, but before he could begin to try and work out exactly how much alcohol Lucius had imbibed since the last time they saw each other, the Dark Lord called the meeting to order with a single word. That word was, unfortunately, his name.

"Severus," he said softly. Severus forced his attention in his master's direction. "I hear that you have some interesting news from the Order?"

Severus allowed his eyes to slide momentarily towards Yaxley and his sly grin before refocusing on the Dark Lord. He had always suspected Yaxley of being the one who was keeping tabs on him and his meetings with Minerva; the man would have made a good spy himself in another life.

"I do. The Order is planning to move Potter tonight. They are scared that Arthur Weasley may talk and compromise his whereabouts."

"Do you know where they plan to take him?" probed the Dark Lord. Severus emptied his mind against the searching red eyes, knowing as he did that they were searching far deeper than merely his outward appearance. "It would be interesting indeed to see their reactions if they find a welcoming party at their ultimate destination."

A hard laugh echoed around the table.

"I am afraid I do not know where he is to be taken, my Lord, but I am sure that he will not be too hard to follow. Although the trace has now broken, the Order is determined not to leave any magical traces behind them when they travel and as such they will be using purely muggle means."

Severus took a deep breath before he continued to speak. The last time that he had met with Minerva to discuss the Order's plans, they had worked out what of the new information he was going to impart to the other side, and what he was about to say had not been included. It made him feel physically nauseous to know he was betraying Minerva's trust in this way; for some reason it seemed to be more of an unforgiveable act to deceive Minerva than it was to deceive Dumbledore. But ultimately, it had to be done in order to ingratiate himself with the Dark Lord again. He had already cost the Order too much thanks to his loyalties being tested. Once he was on the right side of the table once more, in both senses of the word, then he could afford to be more open with Minerva and more evasive with the colleagues he currently sat amongst.

"I have also heard that they plan to use at least one if not more decoys as a distraction. Ostensibly the journeys will start from the different stations of London."

The Dark Lord smiled, satisfied with this information and Severus permitted himself a small inward sigh of relief. As used to it as he was, having one's veracity tested in such a way was never a pleasant experience.

"Then we have it. We shall split our forces and follow them until we find the real Potter." The Dark Lord surveyed his forces over steepled fingers, wondering who would work the best together and who he should send where. Severus took a moment to collect his thoughts and hoped that the Order knew what they were doing. It had been Hermione Granger's idea, and although he could not fault her logic (after all, she had successfully solved a puzzle he had meant to deter adult magicians aged only twelve), nor indeed her ability to get Potter and Weasley out of sticky situations with near monotonous regularity, this was something completely different. Lives were at stake here. Well, when it came to Potter's madcap escapades, the trio's lives were often at stake, but Severus was not quite so worried about them. He was far more concerned for the responsible adults who were risking their safety by listening to a witch who, though academically brilliant, had not had quite as much experience of life and its unexpected problems as the rest of the Order had. Severus suppressed a sigh, perhaps he was being judgemental. After all, no-one else had come up with a better plan for Arthur's rescue. All the same, he could not help but be wary; he had always said that Miss Granger's unquenchable thirst to prove herself would get her into trouble one of these days, and whilst her over-enthusiastic hand-waving in lessons had died down slightly over the years, Severus was still waiting for the inevitable mishap. There was simply too much chance that it might come now.

He slipped out of his reverie on hearing his name.

"Severus… You will go to St Pancras with…"

The Dark Lord's voice faded out of his perception as Severus fell to brooding once more. He hoped that the Order were prepared.

The room fell silent. Orders had been given. It was time to move out, but before anyone could push back his or her chair, Yaxley spoke up, his smooth voice cutting through the still atmosphere like a knife.

"My Lord, there is a possibility that we have not considered," he said, and in that moment Severus could tell why the man had been chosen to oversee the infiltration of the Ministry. Whilst he could have been a brilliant spy in another life, he would have made an even better politician; his tone reassuring but so heavily laden with meaning it was almost weighted to the ground. "Might this movement just be a distraction? Perhaps the Order is planning to rescue Weasley whilst our forces are preoccupied with chasing various Potters around the muggle public transport system?"

The Dark Lord took a second to ponder this suggestion, and then began to laugh, softly. A few of the other Death Eaters tittered unsurely.

"Yaxley, why would the Order attempt to break into our headquarters? I believe that at the last count, they did still have some sense of self-preservation."

Unseen by his master, Severus quirked an eyebrow. That particular statement was rather debatable considering the calibre of the Order members he knew. A curse-breaker, two Aurors and one ex; wizards who by their very profession threw themselves into the path of danger every day in their quest for good. A werewolf who had spent the majority of the previous year liaising with others of his kind. And finally, one could never underestimate the Gryffindor courage of Minerva McGonagall. It still made Severus's blood run cold when he thought of what could have happened to the headmistress on the night she had moved Potter, but he knew that she would not have had it any other way. The Dark Lord was mistaken indeed if he thought that the Order would have any reservations about throwing themselves into the fire to rescue one of their own if necessary. Their emblem was, after all, the phoenix, at home in the flames.

"Besides," the Dark Lord continued. "You said yourself that according to Mr Dawlish, the Aurors are completely ignorant as to Weasley's whereabouts. They can hardly launch a rescue mission if they do not know where he is being held."

"I did say that…" Severus allowed himself a minute smirk as he watched Yaxley squirm under the Dark Lord's cold, scarlet gaze. "They may have found something since my last report," he muttered eventually.

"Well, Yaxley, I will take your worries into account." The Dark Lord turned to Severus. "Has anything of this ilk been mentioned to you?"

"Not that I have heard, my Lord," said Severus calmly, unconcerned with how easily the outright lie came. "But then again, I have not been entirely trusted since Weasley was taken. Professor McGonagall is certain that I knew something of his disappearance beforehand and should have warned her, and by way of punishment she is being deliberately reticent as to the information she shares."

At this his colleagues did laugh out loud, but Severus ignored them. Unlike the other Order members, his sense of self-preservation was functioning perfectly, and he intended to keep it that way for as long as possible. This was not the first time that Severus had wondered what would become of him if the Dark Lord learned his true allegiance, but he knew that it would be an experience he would not survive to warn others of.

"It would not make sense for Potter to be travelling without protection, and it would not make sense for this protection to be provided by anyone other than the most capable wizards, but at the same time it would not do to leave our citadel completely undefended. Of course Wormtail will remain, faithful guard dog that he is, and Yaxley, since you are so concerned about our defences here, you shall remain as well."

At this, Lucius showed signs of cognitive awareness for the first time since the meeting's beginning.

"My Lord," he protested, no doubt ruffled by being sent on madcap goose chases around St Pancras station instead of being allowed to defend his own house. The Dark Lord held up a hand to stop him.

"Lucius, I am sure that your abode will remain perfectly safe. After all, your son is here to uphold what remains of the family honour."

Draco's eyes widened whilst Lucius's became fixed upon the ceiling. His knuckles were white where he gripped the table's edge, and Severus was almost afraid that there would be indents in the shape of his fingers left in the wood when they finally managed to prise him away from it.

"Now, there is precious little time to waste. Use any means necessary but remember: Potter is mine, and I want him alive!"

The gathered Death Eaters began to disband and leave the house to disapparate, and the Dark Lord himself vanished soon after the first had disappeared beyond the boundaries.

"Malfoy?"

Rowle leaned across the table slightly but the older man made no reaction. Had he been a student in one of his classes, Severus would have taken great delight in dropping a book behind his chair to see how close to a coronary he came when shocked back into the present time.

"What did I do to deserve this?" he muttered to the chandelier. "For pity's sake, the Department of Mysteries cock-up was Bellatrix's fault. That aside, what did Draco do to deserve this?"

"He failed to kill Dumbledore," said Yaxley's oily voice in the doorway. "Are you still here, you three? St Pancras is going undefended you know. Chop chop." He clicked his tongue in the way one would to make a horse move.

Lucius finally tore his gaze away from the ceiling and regarded Yaxley with a glare capable of shattering glass.

"I happen to _live _here, Yaxley. You try hosting the entire corps in your pigsty of a flat in the capital's backwaters, then I may pay more heed to your comments."

"Oooh. Lucy's got his claws out for once."

Lucius didn't reply, instead turning his wand on his comrade. Yaxley had the decency to look genuinely scared for a split-second before his slick demeanour returned and he sidled out of the room.

"Lucius," Severus muttered, coming round the table and placing a hand on his friend's arm to make him lower his wand. "He's not worth it, and if anyone around here gets the privilege of killing the slimy bastard then it's me. Besides, he's right for once. St Pancras awaits."

"I know…" Lucius stowed his wand once more. "But by Merlin, Severus, what if they do come here? What about Draco?"

Severus didn't reply for a moment. Knowing that 'they' would indeed be coming calling at the Manor, he felt just as terrible giving Lucius false hope as he did betraying Minerva's trust.

"He'll be fine. Let's go."

As they disapparated, Severus said a silent prayer.

_Please let everything go smoothly.

* * *

_

**Note2: **Let it be known that I have an awful lot of trouble preventing scenes with Voldemort and the Death Eaters from turning into a Whitehall Farce, but I believe I managed to keep this one out of the realms of idiocy. Onwards to the next chapter, in which we go on a jolly to muggle London…


	15. Panic at St Pancras

**Note: **Part two of today's update. Enjoy! Tis a bit shorter than normal, but it's quite fast paced and I didn't want to make it boring by trying to drag it out. I can only make action sequences so interesting; I'm better with character introspection and explanation chapters.

* * *

**Chapter Fifteen**

**Panic at St Pancras**

Hermione took a deep breath and gulped down the vial of golden potion. This had been her idea and there was no way that she was going to sit back and let everyone else enact it. It was this attitude, she thought, that had made the Sorting Hat chose Gryffindor over Ravenclaw, despite its hemming and hawing all those years ago. She was determined to see it through to the bitter end; if anything went wrong she was not going to watch others suffer from her lack of judgement. She shook her head, not wanting to think of what would occur if the worst came to the worst. Hopefully, once the potion wore off and it was made obvious that she was not in fact Harry… But no, that might make things even worse.

She slid the spectacles, replicas of Harry's own, onto her nose, astounded at just how bad his eyesight actually was without them. It was not something that she had ever really thought about, having got so used to seeing the glasses as part and parcel of Harry's appearance that she never contemplated why he needed them so badly.

Pulling herself out of her daydream, Hermione refocused on the task at hand. She'd had a flash of inspiration as the Order had sat debating the meaning of Harry's dream and whether or not Mr Weasley was indeed stowed in the Malfoys' cellar. There was still a batch of polyjuice potion waiting in a corner of the Burrow's kitchen, bubbling away and having no specific purpose anymore now that Harry had been moved from the Dursleys via other means. Why couldn't they put it to use now, use a modified version of their original plan to provide a diversion whilst others broke into the Manor and rescued Mr Weasley? Once she had ventured her opinion, she had been surprised to find it met with general enthusiasm from all except Harry, who was adamant that no-one else was going to risk their lives on hi account. In the end though, the feelings of one teenage wizard, however vehement they were, were no match for the entire rest of the Order of the Phoenix. He had kicked up more of a fuss when Mrs Weasley had told him in no uncertain terms that he was to stay in the Burrow whilst this precarious mission took place.

"But won't it make the illusion a little bit more convincing when one of the Harrys really is Harry?" he had protested.

"Yes, but what happens if one of the Harrys is caught or killed, and that Harry happens to really be Harry?" Moody had retorted. "We can't afford to lose you. We know that. Arthur knows that. The only person who can't seem to grasp this relatively simple concept is you, so stop clabbering and let's get on with it."

Hermione allowed herself a small smile at Harry's attempts at protest, his mouth opening and closing like a guppy and only the beginnings of words coming out in his disbelief.

"Ready?" asked Tonks, bouncing up and down on the balls of her feet, her hair colour changing tone every few seconds with pace that made Hermione feel ever so slightly disorientated. She did not begrudge the young Auror her tick though; Lupin was one of the members of the raiding party, and naturally his wife was more than worried about him. Hermione nodded. "Let's go."

She went to move out of the corner that they had stowed themselves in whilst Hermione took the polyjuice potion and completed her transformation. It was all part of the plan; if the Harrys suddenly 'popped up' in the train stations rather than setting out from the Burrow and being immediately pursuable then it would give the Order the element of surprise and perhaps buy them a little more time. Tonks was almost out of the corner when Hestia Jones held up a hand to stop her.

"Wait. Final run-through of the plan before we start out."

Tonks rolled her eyes but patiently stood still whilst they went through the plan once more. Hestia was not quite such a frontline member of the Order and was therefore more nervous when it came to such precarious outings as this one, but that was not to say that she shied away from the task that had been set her by any manner or means. Whilst it would keep up appearances to have Harry travelling with a cohort of powerful magicians, it made sense to retain some of their best fighters for the break-in itself; after all, no-one could deny that they were about to infiltrate Voldemort's headquarters, however much of a distraction for his gatekeepers they provided.

"It's fairly simple. Take a midnight creeper to Newcastle and then reunite with Mundungus, Kingsley and Dedalus at the Burrow again at some time tomorrow once we've found our way home."

Hestia nodded, and Hermione and Tonks took this as their cue to move out into the open. As soon as they had done so, however, the hair on the back of Hermione's neck stood on end. They were being watched, she was sure of it.

"There's someone here," hissed Tonks, her Auror's instincts also picking up on the unfriendly presence. "Someone knew we were coming."

Hermione looked around, but all she could see were travel-weary muggles waiting for their trains.

_Get a grip Hermione, of course they aren't going to be here in their hoods and masks. That would be a bit obvious in a muggle train station. Mind you, when you look at some of them, it's hard to wonder how they ever got a reputation as a fear-bringing fighting force. _

Hestia shrugged minutely.

"We've got to let them follow us," she said simply. "We need to draw them away from the Manor so that the others can get in and look for Arthur."

Hermione nodded; the older witch was right. As dangerous as it was, they had come with the intention of picking up pursuers. They had just not expected to find them so soon.

"I still say we change trains at the last minute though," muttered Tonks as they made their way towards the platform they had originally intended to travel from. Halfway there, Hermione stopped dead. She had seen something out of the corner of her eye.

"It's Snape," she breathed, and the others followed her gaze towards the black-clad man obscured behind the telephone booths.

"Are you sure?" asked Tonks, but in that moment he stepped out of the shadow and they saw his face fully. It was indeed Snape.

Hermione felt anger bubble up in her stomach, but she suppressed it hastily. This, she thought, was why it would not have been a good idea to allow Harry to be part of the distraction. As passionate as he was, she highly doubted that he would be able to stop himself from attacking the former potions master as retribution for his murder of Dumbledore. As painful a wound as the betrayal was, Hermione knew that she could not be the one to enact revenge. She had to ignore her feelings for the greater good. Mr Weasley's life was at stake. All their lives were at stake. It would not do to let personal vendettas put them in even more danger than they were already in. It was this attitude which separated adults from teenagers, Hermione thought, and a small part of her was secretly pleased that she had mastered it.

They kept moving, walking slightly quicker but not so as to attract attention. Hermione risked a glance over her shoulder. Snape was weaving in and out of the tired muggles, gaining on them…

Tonks pulled her onto a crowded train that was just about to leave and dragged her down the length of a carriage, squeezing past muggles fighting with suitcases in the luggage racks. She saw Snape get on a few moments behind them, still instantly recognisable even without the robes billowing like batwings behind him. She was so intent on watching their pursuer that she did not see the person in front of her until it as too late and she walked headlong into them.

"Sorry," she muttered, looking up into the pale and slightly haunted eyes of Lucius Malfoy. She took a step back but a hand enclosed itself over her shoulder in an vice-grip and she felt a wand jab her between the ribs.

"Mr Potter…" There was an unmistakeable note of triumph in Malfoy's voice. Hermione gave a start, she had momentarily forgotten that she was, for the moment, not Hermione but Harry, and she looked around desperately for Tonks and Hestia; how had they managed to get separated? She located them not far in front of her, also backing up, cornered.

Hermione's mind worked faster than it had ever done in her life. One of the best advantages that she had against her foes, she knew, was that she could think like a muggle. Sometimes, the best ways did not involve magic in any shape or form. Suppressing a smile, she kneed Malfoy between the legs and leapt for the emergency exit. Her wand, secreted up her sleeve, made short work of the alarm and she jumped out onto the track, landing neatly between the electrified rails. A split second later, Tonks and Hestia landed either side of her and they began to make their way across the rails towards the other platform.

"Good thinking," panted Tonks, turning the dangerous metal lines to rubber with a flick of her wand should she trip and fall, as was likely with her inherent clumsiness. "But I think we've just succeeded in attracting even more attention to ourselves."

As Tonks gave her a legup onto the platform, Hermione could hear people shouting and running about desperately.

"There's people on the line!"

"Those fellas on the train were trying to kidnap the boy, I saw it, he jumped out of the emergency exit!"

"Mummy, why's that lady got pink hair?"

"What's going on? Get off the line!"

"We're trying," muttered Hermione through gritted teeth as she helped Tonks pull herself up onto the platform. She looked around at her surroundings, as incapacitated as she was until Tonks gained proper purchase on the platform edge. Behind her, the station officials and the police were careering down the platform ready to arrest her for trespassing on the train lines. In front of her, the Death Eaters had forced their way off the train and were crossing the rails. Hermione was sure that it was only the vast amount of muggle witnesses, a number far too great to dispose of quickly, that was preventing them from entering an all out duel there and then.

"What in Heaven? For the love of God will you get off the bleeding tracks!" roared the stationmaster through the loudspeaker, startling any travellers who had not heard the commotion taking place between platforms one and two into running towards the scene of the mass hysteria. Hermione prayed that they would all just go away. Whilst the muggles might be having palpitations due to the dangers of walking on electrified train tracks, those were really the least of Hermione's worries. Some things were far more lethal to muggles than wayward voltage, and those things were gaining on them from the train standing at the other platform. It was only a matter of time before something went drastically wrong.

For the second time that evening, Hermione felt a hand enclose over her shoulder, and she looked up to see a policeman doubled over, wheezing heavily.

"You're coming with me. Sonny Jim," he panted, although it was evident that they weren't going to be going anywhere in a hurry. "What do you think you're doing, leaping onto the tracks?"

"I was about to be kidnapped!" Hermione yelped, which was not quite so far from the truth. "I…"

But then the policeman keeled over, snoring lightly. Hestia stood behind him, stowing her wand back into her pocket. She reached down and hauled the still flailing Tonks up onto the platform and looked pointedly at Hermione, who was regarding the older witch with respect. How she could ever have thought Hestia was out of her depth on this mission was beyond her.

"May I suggest we continue to run?" she asked before taking off down the platform in the direction away from the oncoming onslaught of officials. Hermione and Tonks followed hot on her heels.

"How did you…" Hermione began.

"I disapparated whilst everyone was preoccupied with you," Hestia replied tersely. "Unfortunately, _they_ did as well."

Hermione glanced behind her, making out the forms of Snape, Malfoy and the other Death Eaters that had been on the train amongst the crowd that was chasing them. Suddenly, everything went fuzzy. She stumbled, toppling into Tonks arms, and her blood ran cold as she realised what had happened. Hestia swore, uncharacteristically.

"Who made this Polyjuice Potion?" she growled. "It's supposed to last at least an hour, not five bleeding minutes!"

"Hestia," Hermione began, her world becoming clear once more as she pulled the glasses off her face. "That's not our biggest problem right now…"

Suddenly, Hermione had an idea. A brilliant idea that she thanked her muggle-born brain for providing her with in their hour of need. There was only way that they could get out of this mess, a mess that, a small part of Hermione's mind recognised, was her own doing for jumping out of the emergency exit and onto the tracks anyway. That was to disappear. But they couldn't disapparate with so many witnesses. They needed a distraction, like Hestia had done to get onto the platform.

And Hermione had the perfect distraction.

"HE'S GOT A GUN!" she screamed as the crowd reached them, pointing in the general direction of one of the Death Eaters.

Tonks looked at Hermione with her eyebrows almost disappearing into her hairline. Hestia grinned; she knew the muggle world as well as she did her own.

Chaos. Sheer and perfect chaos. Chaos in which no-one thought to ask why the boy who had been on the tracks had spontaneously changed gender, or why the woman who was with him had blue hair that had been pink a moment ago, or why any of them were carrying what appeared to be magic wands.

No-one thought to ask where the three women they had been chasing had suddenly disappeared to.

* * *

**Note2: **He he! Sorry, I'm in a funny mood. It's anticipation. We're baking lebkuchen in the flat tonight and if there is one thing that can lift my spirits, it's the prospect of lebkuchen. Which is one of the best things in the world. Period.


	16. Impasse

**Note: **Apologies for the delay; madness was reigning in my life and unfortunately writing had to take a back seat whilst I got myself together. I am now together, and here is the update that would have come last week. As a treat, it is three chapters instead of two. (But mainly that's because I got a little bit carried away.) The next update is already written so we should be back to normal now!

* * *

**Chapter Sixteen**

**Impasse**

"Well… Now what?"

Remus, Moody and Bill stood in front of the Manor gates, wondering just how they were going to get past them. Moody ran a hand over the wrought iron, not giving the slightest flinch when they twisted into grotesque shapes, refusing to let him pass.

"I can feel the blood wards," he said gruffly. "I was prepared for those; they can be fooled. There's something else though. I can't quite see it but there's definitely something else."

"Hmm," said Bill drily. "I wonder why."

Remus ran a hand over the gates as well and tried to remain as unfazed as Moody had. He too could feel the magic running through the metal, magic that would recognise those of the Malfoy family and make the gate open automatically for them. He knew, however, that he was not as sensitive to the darker magics of the world as Moody and Bill were. They encountered these things every day in their respective lines of work, and it was a matter of survival that they had an in-depth knowledge of the more harmful spells that the magical world held. Remus thought of his own employment history, as scanty as it had been in recent years. It would have been wonderful if he had been able to pursue one career for a long and fruitful period, as Bill and Moody had done. A career that required special training and skills, a career that would be truly respected amongst wizards. Such an achievement would be made all the sweeter by knowing everything that he had overcome in order to get there. Deep within, despite the friendships he already had, Remus craved the respect of his fellow wizards, but thanks to circumstances beyond his control, it was so much harder to gain.

"_State your purpose_," hissed the gates.

"We're here to break in and break out Dad," muttered Bill under his breath. He turned to Moody. "You know what we need, don't you? If they want to keep this place safe from the likes of us then all they have to do is tell the gates to keep out everyone who isn't a Death Eater."

In other words, Remus added mentally, teach the metal to recognise the Dark Mark.

"Not quite so easy to bypass," admitted Moody. There was a long silence whilst the three men thought frantically for a way through the Manor gates. They really should have been better prepared, Remus admitted to himself, but they had thought, as Moody had said aloud, that all they would have to contend with would be the blood wards.

"I've had a thought," said Bill. "A very long shot, but a thought none the less."

"Anything's better than nothing," said Moody. "Unless you suggest we try vaulting over the wall, in which case you're madder than I am."

"How did Harry get through the gates in his dream?" asked Bill. "Maybe that could give us a clue."

"I just passed straight through them as if they weren't there."

The voice from nowhere, although undeniably Harry's, made Remus start, and he hid a smirk as he saw Moody give the tiniest of twitches out of the corner of his eye. After a split-second of being caught off guard, however, the instinct for self-preservation kicked in and all three turned their wands on the interloper who had interrupted their musing.

"It's ok, it's me!"

The air seemed to shimmer and Harry's form appeared, pulling off the silvery invisibility cloak that Remus still retained fond Hogwarts memories of.

"That's what they all say," said Moody. "Mind you, I am tempted to think it's really you, as no-one else in their right mind would come out here with such a flagrant disregard for their own safety."

"It's not my fault," said Harry. "I had an idea and I didn't see any other way to get it to you! I'll go back to the Burrow as soon as…"

"Harry," Remus cut in, very aware that whilst Harry was doing an admirable job of proving he was indeed the genuine article, they had not as yet established his veracity. "What creature was sitting in the tank in the corner when you first came into my office at Hogwarts?"

Harry gave the correct answer and continued his vehement self-defence without pausing for breath.

"I'm not worried about the life-threatening situations you might find yourself in outside the Burrow, boy," growled Moody. "I'm more worried about how many limbs you'll have lost by the time Molly Weasley's done with you having gone behind her back."

Bill quickly stifled a laugh with a cough and was suddenly very interested in the fancy fretwork on the gates.

"She won't notice I'm gone," said Harry. "I'll be two minutes, I swear."

Moody fell silent and raised an eyebrow.

"Ok then Potter. What's your brilliant idea? How do you suggest we get past a gate that's been taught to recognise the Mark and that alone?"

"Parseltongue," said Harry simply. Moody's eyebrow went up another half-inch, and he said nothing, his expression of incredulity prompting Harry to continue his explanation. "Being a Parselmouth is one of Voldemort's defnining characteristics. The Dark Mark is a snake coming out of the mouth of a skull – a snake as a tongue. It makes sense – the gates might recognise Parseltongue, but that doesn't necessarily mean that it always has to be spoken."

Bill nodded, impressed.

"It's a good idea," he said.

"It's the only idea we've got," admitted Moody. "Ok Potter, give it your best shot. But then you're going straight back to the Burrow…"

"…And we will not be held responsible for any punishment that you receive that Mum sees fit," Bill added. "That you brought upon yourself."

Remus could tell that Bill was finding it extremely hard to keep the laugh out of his voice, and from the dark scowl that Harry gave the eldest Weasley son as he passed to stand in front of the gates, he could too. He paused for a few moments, twirling the cloak over and over between his fingers unconsciously as he considered exactly what he should say. Finally he opened his mouth and the unearthly hissing that was the language of the serpent spilled out of his mouth like mist swirling through the trees that surrounded the Manor, almost as if the language had a life of its own, as twisting and tricky and undulating as the beast to which it belonged.

The gates did not open, but they underwent a definite change of state. They seemed to shimmer in the air, as the cloak had done when Harry had pulled it off and both had become visible once more. Moody reached out to touch them gingerly and his hand passed straight through the metal, as if it was not there and they were merely viewing a hologram.

"I don't know how long that'll last," said Harry, "so you might want to get a move on."

Moody passed through the gates, followed by Bill. Remus hesitated, a little unnerved by the proposition of walking through something that seemed to be solid to the untrained eye, but then Moody, aware of how time was ticking away, reached through and pulled him bodily into the Manor grounds. The three rescuers turned and looked at Harry, who was still standing on the other side of the gates, looking slightly wistful.

"Don't you think it would be…" he began, but Moody cut him off.

"No," he said gruffly. "You've risked enough by coming out here in the first place, you meddlesome fool, although I can't deny that we probably couldn't have done it without you. Back to the Burrow. Now. We can take care of everything from here."

"But what if there's…"

"There won't be," growled Moody.

Harry's expression became resigned.

"I'm going," he said, and he pulled the cloak over his head once more. A second later, Remus heard the crack of a disapparition, and satisfied that Harry was once more on his way to safety, the three turned and began to make their way towards the foreboding looking house that towered above them at the end of the drive.

Remus had grown up in the magical world. He had been witness to and indeed an active participant in many things that muggles would only see in dreams, or more likely, as was the case with Remus's life, nightmares. Having spent a large proportion of his life in the throes of moonlit madness, it went without saying that it took a lot to phase him.

Doors that opened of their own accord, however, were one of the few things that had always managed to send a shiver down his spine. Remus prayed that his companions would see his momentary tremble as a reaction to the unseasonal chill in the air, swirling with the dementors' mist as it was. Not, of course, that a shiver of fear would be entirely unjustified. They were, after all, breaking and entering into the headquarters of the most powerfully and most woefully misguided magician currently alive, a wizard who had an army of thousands – both willing and not-so-willing – at his disposal, and who, for all they knew, could be inside the building at that very moment waiting for them. And they were but three. It had taken a lot of second-guessing to come up with the plan that they were currently enacting, but in the end it had been decided to keep up appearances by sending two of the Aurors with the two decoy Harrys in order to throw the Death Eaters off the scent. They might become suspicious if Harry was travelling wholly without the sort of protection that one would expect the 'Chosen One' to receive. They would wonder where the real fighting force of the Order was. There was also the point, one that Tonks had fought bitterly with Moody about, that this mission to rescue Arthur was a covert operation, a skirmish rather than a bloody battle. As highly trained in all disciplines, stealth included, as the Aurors were, Remus could not deny that Tonks would not be anyone's first choice for such a delicate operation. In, find Arthur, out; that was the plan, making as little fuss as possible. It was a daunting task, but Remus liked to think himself prepared.

That blasted door, on the other hand… What was it that Arthur had always said about not trusting anything that had no obvious place in which to keep a brain? The door had opened for them as they crept up the long drive, dark hoods pulled low over their faces in a feeble attempt at disguise. Whether the door had opened because it believed they really were Death Eaters (in which case Remus should not have been quite so unnerved by its sheer obtuseness), or because it thought that Voldemort himself had just walked through the gates, Remus didn't know. All he knew was that the house had some degree of sentience, like such old places steeped in centuries and generations of magic did. Just like Hogwarts, the bricks and stones of the manor had absorbed the magic that they had borne witness to over the years, moulding it into a strange magic of their own that acted as a sort of pseudo-self defence; turning the building into one that could almost think for itself. The house's brain was at its heart, where the magic would collect, slowly becoming ever more potent, but at that moment, Remus could not see the house's heart. He could only see a door that had opened with the aid of neither hand nor wand.

Remus paused outside the doorway, peering into the darkened hallway beyond. He had the sudden and unwelcome sensation of cold feet, and he had never before realised that the phrase was meant literally. He could feel the blood chilling in his veins as the magnitude of what they were about to do became clearer to him for the first time. For a start, they were breaking into a building, or at least entering it under false pretences, which was illegal under both muggle and wizarding law no matter how good the intentions. Added to that, the building was a very old, very magical one, and who knew what sort of traps it might spring at them completely independently of its owner, and in turn who knew what measures he might have in place to deter interlopers? Remus watched as Moody tapped all over the doorframe with his wand, searching for anything that might hinder their passing, and he considered their situation once more, his train of thought continuing in a logical fashion. Even when Moody had dealt with anything that Malfoy might have added to the house's arsenal, it was not just him that they would be dealing with once inside. Who knew how many Death Eaters were currently chasing the rest of the Order around the country on trains? Who knew how many remained behind? Who knew if Voldemort was currently residing in the manor at that time? As Moody gave the all-clear and motioned for Remus and Bill to follow him inside, Remus could not help but give a wry smile at the notion. Their nemesis would make for a very interesting house guest.

The house was dark; eerily and unnaturally so. There were no signs of life at all, and Remus was not quite sure if this made him more or less nervous about their quest. He shrugged inwardly; perhaps it made sense to leave the manor undefended, after all, Harry was their first priority. If it was merely a place to keep prisoners and hold meetings, did it really warrant such importance being placed upon its defence? It was easily replaced in its function as a citadel, and Remus highly doubted that Voldemort would have any sort of respect for his followers' property to want to keep it safe out of gratitude.

"DUCK!" growled Moody suddenly, and Remus wasted no more time in contemplation, throwing himself onto the ground as a flash of light missed him by inches…

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**Note2: **Nice little cliffie… Don't worry, the next chapter's there and waiting for you!


	17. As Strong as the Weakest Link

**Chapter Seventeen**

**As Strong as the Weakest Link**

"_DUCK!" growled Moody suddenly, and Remus wasted no more time in contemplation, throwing himself onto the ground as a flash of light missed him by inches. _

Remus had not been paying attention to his surroundings, as lost in thought as he had been, and that had nearly been fatal. By the time he had got to his feet again, Moody and Bill had engaged the curse-flinger in a duel and promptly made short work of him by dint of simple outnumber. Remus looked down at their ambusher as Moody bound him by magic, tugging the wand out of his stunned and petrified hand. It was Yaxley, who seemed to be anywhere and everywhere within the Ministry at any given time, dripping poison into the ears of the politicians and spreading misinformation as if it was going out of fashion, sowing the seeds of fear, doubt and discontent. Bill stood alert in the hallway as Remus helped Moody finish the binding in knots that he would never be able to wriggle out of without the aid of magic, watching out to make sure that Yaxley had been alone when he had attacked them. His once-handsome face, now so irretrievably marred, was a picture of concentration, but in what little light he could garner, Remus could tell that the younger wizard had the unhealthy pallor of worry about him. He had argued with his mother and with Minerva long and hard about his coming with them – both witches were determined that no more Weasleys would be endangered until Arthur was safe amongst them once more. Bill had won in the end with a grim but undeniably accurate point. They had no real idea what sort of a state Arthur might be in once they found him, and Bill's skills as a cursebreaker might be required as a matter of urgency. As much as he hoped Bill's expertise would not be required, Remus could not help but be glad that Minerva and Molly had relented at this, despite the emotional involvement that might hinder his judgement in a heated moment.

"Come on," said Moody after a few moments of fraught silence had passed. "Let's get on. The sooner we find Arthur and get out of here, the better."

"Where do we start looking?" asked Bill.

"Harry said that Arthur was being kept in a cellar, the entrance to which was in the drawing room, which should be…" Remus looked around the forbidding entrance way, trying to orientate himself according to the description of Harry's dream that he had heard. "That one."

He pointed to a door and it opened seemingly of its own accord, causing all three men to jump slightly. A voice, vaguely familiar although disembodied, reassured them that there was in fact someone there.

"Yaxley?" It was Draco Malfoy, sounding puzzled and worried in equal measure. "Yaxley, is everything alright?"

The youngest of the Death Eaters extricated himself fully from the room and stepped into the hallway, unaware of the disturbance until he saw the three wands pointed at his chest. The panic that shot across his face was clear to see, and he floundered for a moment before drawing his own wand in retaliation.

"Boy, you're outnumbered and we've taken care of Yaxley," growled Moody, taking a step or two closer, his own wand unwavering. "Besides, we already know that you aren't the killing sort."

Draco looked petrified, inching his way back into the drawing room. Remus wondered what he would do; whether he would try to call for help from the other Death Eaters; whether there _were _any other Death Eaters around or whether he had been left virtually alone to protect his castle.

The boy opened his mouth, but he did not call for back-up in that sense.

"Mother," he said warily, evidently at a complete loss for what to do, backing up and looking around the room for the obviously absent Narcissa.

Moody rolled his magical eye and cast the disarming spell before Draco had had time to even think about providing himself with any sort of defence. Now wandless, he appeared to give up the fight before it had even started, and it only took a few moments for him to meet the same fate as Yaxley, gagged and bound by magic.

"I've dealt with a lot of Death Eaters in my time," said Moody as they made their way onwards through the drawing room towards the door which, according to Harry's dream, would lead them to the cellar and with it to Arthur, "but he has got to be the most inept."

Remus thought about the Draco Malfoy that he had known in his one year teaching at Hogwarts. He remembered a cocky, unpleasant thirteen-year-old, pride and arrogance and genuine malice all mixed in and mingled with each other until they were virtually indistinguishable. He had not been stupid, by any manner or means, his marks had always been fairly good. What had happened to turn him into the nervous, jumpy young man that he was now? Remus continued to think back, and he realised he knew exactly what had happened. In the third-years' first lesson he had taught them about boggarts. With the Gryffindors, he had prevented Harry from facing the boggart due to a primal fear of Voldemort appearing in the room with them, and that had always been his most prominent memory of his first week of teaching, but it was not the only third-year class that he had taken to face the fear-mongering creature. The Slytherins had also faced it, a morbidly fascinating exercise in seeing what the fiercely defensive bunch was really afraid of. Unlike the dread creatures (and Severus) of the Gryffindors, the fears of the serpent house had been subtler, more psychological. For one girl, the boggart had seemed to disappear completely, leaving Remus to think that it had somehow escaped the staffroom, until the sound of fingernails scraping at a wooden coffin lid filled the room, making everyone jump suddenly. It was only the sound that she had feared, and so the boggart had duly remained in the shadows and just made noises.

Remus remembered Draco's turn and remembered the genuine unease that had filled his face. At the time, Remus remembered with embarrassment, he had felt a little surge of triumph at seeing him so unnerved, bringing him down a peg or two, but once he had seen Draco's fear, this had vanished. The boggart had become Lucius Malfoy, gaunt and corpse-like, chained to within an inch of his life. Imprisoned in Azkaban. Then the metal had become daisy chains and Draco had stepped aside to let his next classmate face their fears.

The adult Draco was so different from his young teenage self because his worst nightmare had come true.

"Here," said Moody, tapping the cellar door with his wand and taking a step back as it swung open. Remus peered into the darkness beyond, letting his eyes get accustomed to the gloom that seemed to be even more oppressive than the darkness in the rest of the house that they had already traversed had been. He could see nothing, hear nothing, nothing that would tell him if Arthur was alive, or if he was even there. There was still the terrible possibility, one that none of the rescue party had voiced, that it was all an elaborate hoax, a trap for the Order, in which they would become prisoners themselves whilst trying to save one of their colleagues. Remus looked at the door cautiously, wondering whether it would snap shut and lock of its own accord once they were inside. Moody, ever the Auror, seemed to be thinking along similar lines and muttered a spell to stick the door to the wall before venturing into the darkness and lighting his wand to show them the way. At any rate, at least they would now have warning if the door was about to betray them, the slow and wholly unique noise of glued surfaces being prised apart, and that would hopefully give them enough time to run hell for leather for the door before it closed.

"Arthur?" hissed Moody, as the light from their wands roamed all over the walls, revealing nothing. "Weasley, where are you?"

"Dad?" Bill's voice sounded worried for the first time since they had entered the building, as if the possibility that his father was not there and their mission was fruitless had just caught up with him. Remus could not even begin to wonder how the younger man was feeling at that point in time, so he concentrated his efforts on searching the vast subterranean space in which they were ensconced.

"Arthur?"

"Dad?"

"Bill?"

The voice was weak and rasping, the voice of a man who had withstood much and could not withstand much more, but it was a voice that was undeniably alive, undeniably hopeful and undeniably Arthur's. The light from Bill's wand bounced up and down in sporadic patterns as he ran towards the sound and Remus and Moody followed as fast as they could, the latter muttering something about being caught out by traps.

But then, they had found him, crumpled and tortured but alive and compos mentis and locked in an embrace with his eldest son.

"Come on Dad, we've got to get you out of here," Bill said when they broke apart, the relief in his voice clear to hear.

"We can't apparate out. Can you walk?" asked Moody.

Arthur shook his head.

"I don'… I'm not sure…" He paused and looked up at his rescuers blearily. "I'm not the only one," he said. "Ollivander's here too."

Ollivander, missing for a year. Had he been in this cellar all that time? Remus shuddered to think of it.

"He's in a bad way," Arthur continued. "Worse than me."

"Like that's possible," muttered Bill, but Remus was already moving onward, searching out the wandmaker in the depths of the gloom.

"Ollivander?" he called softly. "Mr Ollivander?" It seemed strange, calling him like this, but the stalwart of Diagon Alley had always been simply Ollivander. His first name had never come into the proceedings of his work. Presently the light from Remus's wand reflected off another heap propped up against the wall. It was Ollivander, unconscious and deathly pale, succumbing to illness as well as curses. It was hardly surprising, thought Remus, given the cold and damp of his surroundings and his old age.

"Ennervate… Ennervate…"

It took several attempts before the wandmaker's unnaturally pale eyes finally flickered open and he stared at Remus.

"Remus John Lupin," he croaked, his voice barely audible around the cough that was trying to escape his throat. "Oak, thirteen-and-a-half inches, phoenix feather core. Durable."

Remus nodded, a little taken aback that this should be the first thing that Ollivander had said upon seeing his saviour, but at least it had confirmed his identity.

"Don't tell me they got you too," Ollivander continued. "First Arthur… There'll be no Order left at this rate…"

"No, we're here to get you and Arthur out," Remus interrupted said, casting an eye over the wandmaker's near skeletal frame and knowing that he would not be able to support his own meagre weight. He cast a lightening spell on the man and took one thin arm around his shoulders, pulling him up and making his way back towards the steps, following after Moody and Bill who were supporting Arthur between them.

Halfway along the corridor that would lead them back to the drawing room, Remus stopped dead in his tracks. He had heard something, something a long way away but something nonetheless. Over the years, thanks to the animal within, Remus had found that his senses were heightened at night, particularly that of hearing. The thing that he had heard that had made him stop so suddenly was a scream, a scream in a tone that was still familiar. It was a slightly squeaky tone, like the squealing of a frightened rat.

"Something's happened," he said to the others, who had paused when he had stopped, looking back at him with concern. "I just heard Wormtail scream, I'm sure of it."

"Then you can bet that the others won't be far behind," growled Moody, readjusting his grip on Arthur and stomping onwards through the corridor. Remus nodded his agreement, but he could not get the scream out of his mind. What had happened? Why would Wormtail scream in such a way, unless the London operation had been aborted early and the others had come to the Manor in the wake of the Death Eaters realising that they had been duped. But if that was the case then surely the Death Eaters would already have arrived and…

Moody echoed his thoughts.

"Come on; let's get out of here before we're overrun."

The suggestion would have been an excellent one had they not been met with a hail of curses once they emerged into the drawing room. For a moment, Remus thought that the entire corps had indeed arrived at the house once more and congregated in the drawing room, but after Moody had cast a shield to protect them, they saw their attacker was in fact alone. It was Narcissa, her eyes narrowed and fingers at the grab-ready, the grip on her wand so tight she looked to be in danger of breaking it in two. Whilst Moody might have remarked that Draco was not the killing kind, he certainly could not say the same about his mother. Narcissa looked nothing short of murderous, and Remus was reminded of the old sayings concerning the she-bear when her cubs were threatened, or the swan pen protecting her cygnets. Remus, Moody and Bill had invaded Narcissa's nest, attacked her baby and now, with feathers ruffled, she was more than ready to take revenge, ignoring the obvious disadvantage of outnumber.

"No time to be chivalrous lads," growled Moody.

However ferocious Narcissa was prepared to be, odds of three against one were never going to work out in her favour. Their combined power forced her to retreat further into the room, leaving their exit path clear. Remus looked over her shoulder and through the window, out into the darkened grounds. He could see the gates, and beyond them the shadows of the Death Eaters appearing. Whatever had happened at St Pancras and King's Cross, the ploy was over far before it was meant to be. Remus felt his blood run cold, praying that their friends had been able to get to safety and that the reason for their foes' early return was not to deposit more hostages in the cellar.

"Moody," he warned.

"I've seen them," the older Auror replied, and Remus reflected that he should have known, really. Moody could see everything, including when a hasty retreat would be profitable. Bill sent Narcissa flying head over heels with a final curse and the contingent of Order members passed out into the hallway and out of the front door. As they left, Remus felt a sudden jerk from his inside pocket and the wands that he had taken from Yaxley and Draco flew out of it, disappearing into the heart of the Manor. Remus did not waste time in thinking about the action; he knew it was simply another weapon in the house's arsenal, a simple magnetic effect that drew all magical objects stolen from the house back towards it. He focussed instead on their goal, the gates and freedom, praying that they could reach the twisting iron before the Death Eaters did. They were running towards certain doom, going pell mell towards a crowd with greater strength of numbers and absolutely no moral reservations.

The gates shimmered in midair, becoming tangible and traversable. There was only one thing for it. They simply threw themselves into the melee as the first Death Eaters came through the gates in front of them, praying that the element of surprise would give them the split-second they needed to disapparate. Remus felt the sting of a hex hit his cheek, and he turned to defend himself against the mass of masked black that was pressing in around him, but then a hand grabbed his collar everything vanished.

Remus found himself standing outside the boundaries of the Burrow, the hand that gripped his neck belonging to a grim-looking Moody, who insisted on spending several minutes checking to make sure that they had not accidentally brought any Death Eaters with them, but Remus paid little attention in his state of utter relief. They had made it.

Arthur was home.

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**Note: **And now, you lucky, lucky people, the fun doesn't end there! Oh no, as a special treat to make up for my missing a week, you have an extra chapter in this week's update, a chapter that was never really intended to exist! Oh, it's a long story. Just read and enjoy.


	18. The Rat's Reckoning

**Note: **We've gone back in time a little bit to the middle of chapter sixteen, when Harry disappeared. This chapter is also shorter than the others, but it would just be wrong to try and extend it. Hopefully you'll see what I mean at the end.

* * *

**Chapter Eighteen**

**The Rat's Reckoning**

The crack that the others had heard and no doubt assumed was his disapparation did not belong to Harry. He was acutely aware that someone had apparated very closely into the vicinity just after he had redonned the invisibility cloak, and that the someone was most definitely unfriendly. He knew this because whoever it was had petrified him, leaving him unable to apparate away to safety and unable to yell for help from the Order, who were getting further and further away from him, assuming that he was safe.

Harry cursed the double-edged sword of life. He would not be in this position had he not been so reckless as to go behind everyone's backs and come out to the Manor to give his assistance, but at the same time, without his assistance Mr Weasley might have been stuck in the cellar and subject to various tortures for who-knew-how-long. This was no time to be falling into contemplation. His life was on the line; he needed to be fully and completely aware of what was going on; aware of his surroundings. It was hard to be aware of one's surroundings when one was completely unable to move, but Harry had the horrible sensation of being approached from behind, of someone breathing down his neck in hard, wheezing pants. He recognised the pattern, and he felt the anger curling within his stomach as he realised who his ambusher was.

Presently there was the rush of fabric and the cloak was pulled off. Wormtail finally came around to face Harry, his face a picture of murine glee.

"And they always said that I would never amount to anything," he squeaked, his voice grating on Harry's nerves. "And they would always see me as little more than a dogsbody to order around as they please, a poor relation. Who was it who found the Dark Lord once more? Who was it who nursed him back to health? Who was it who _gave their own flesh _to restore him to life? And, who is it who has finally found Harry Potter?" Wormtail smiled wistfully, his thoughts miles away, no doubt thinking of the rich reward that he would reap for his success after so long being under the thumb of the other Death Eaters. Harry wondered, since he could do little else, at Wormtail's status within the organisation. He was evidently not as trusted as some of the lieutenants who did their master's bidding, as left out of things as he tended to be, and Harry supposed that his heritage was against him in this respect. As the only wizard from a house other than Slytherin to 'go dark', it seemed natural that his presence within the ranks would be viewed with suspicion. One could never tell when his Gryffindor conscience might return and endanger them all. Personally, Harry was of the opinion that all that was Gryffindor about Peter Pettigrew had died the night that he had betrayed his parents, but not everyone would hold the same view, especially not a bunch of slimy, suspicious snakes.

At the same time, however, one could not deny the very obvious and intimate connection between Voldemort and the rat. The silver of his replacement hand glinted in the moonlight, casting light in strange, eerie patterns around the vicinity. Wormtail was, in a way, a part of Voldemort himself, and Harry had never quite been able to work out if the connection had been severed when Pettigrew had severed his hand, if the lump of dead flesh was just that, or if there was something more mysterious at work which connected the two magicians; like the link he himself shared with Voldemort in his dreams through his scar.

Wormtail was still staring at him like one stares at a great prize that one cannot believe one has won, a mingled expression of pride, awe and disbelief on his face.

"And it was so easy," he was murmuring to himself. "So deceptively, stupidly easy." He shook his head. "The others will be green with envy… I can't wait to see Bellatrix's face…"

Anger had slowly been building up in Harry's heart like someone was pumping a small fire with bellows, allowing it to grow and grow until it was on the verge of setting the chimney on fire. At first it had been anger with himself, anger at his own foolishness and sheer bad luck. Now, however, the old anger had returned, the anger and disgust that he had felt towards Pettigrew ever since the truth had been revealed that fateful night in the Shrieking Shack. The man had killed his parents, betrayed his best friends and now seemed to be revelling in the prospective destruction of their son. He was not a victim of the regime, he was an active and willing participant. Why had Harry shown him mercy? Why hadn't he let Sirius and Remus do what they'd set out to do? Why had he wanted to be so humanitarian? But the decisions of his thirteen-year-old self could not be changed now, and Harry was reminded of something that had never before seemed relevant, something that he had almost forgotten.

Dumbledore's voice resounded in his head, drowning out Wormtail's mutterings as if he was standing right next to Harry and speaking in his ear.

_The time may come when you will be very glad that you saved Pettigrew's life. _

He had saved Pettigrew's life, and the snivelling excuse for a man was in his debt. Not just any debt, a life debt. He could not forget that, but petrified as he was, Harry could not forcibly remind him of the fact. Maybe, just maybe… Wormtail's silver hand twitched, and he shot a nervous glance at the shining fingers. It had not been a voluntary action. Maybe, just maybe, Pettigrew's magic would remember the debt when the man did not. And maybe, just maybe, the link between him and his master would remember the debt as well. After all, Voldemort would not want a servant who was in Harry Potter's debt, and who knew what would happen if such a debt was not repaid.

Still staring at his twitching fingers, which were jerking ever more violently now, Wormtail raised his right hand, pulling up his left sleeve with some difficulty to expose the Dark Mark.

"No," he whispered through gritted teeth as he fought to bring the glistening hand down onto it to call Voldemort and the rest of the Death Eaters. "No. This… must… be… done…"

He finally managed it, the lines of the skull and snake burning glossy black under his touch for a split second. He smiled triumphantly, but the expression was not destined to last for long.

After that, everything seemed to happen very quickly. Within a flash, the long metallic digits were grasping Wormtail's neck in a vice-hold; he was only just able to slide his real fingers under them to try and lever himself some breathing room. His face was fast becoming redder and redder as a terrible serpentine voice began to hiss from the hand itself, and Harry was confirmed in his thought that the connection between Pettigrew and Voldemort ran deeper than a simple blood sacrifice.

"_You have betrayed the debt, Wormtail… And a debt must always be honoured, even with our enemies… It was a foolish thing you did, Wormtail, allowing yourself into the debt of Harry Potter, of all people. And such foolishness always comes at a price."_

Voldemort's voice died away and the silver hand's grip relaxed enough to allow Wormtail to breathe, but it did not let go completely. It was as if it had previously been made from molten metal that had since cooled and hardened into an unbreakable form. Harry wondered what was yet to come, for despite Wormtail's evident relief at no longer being choked, literally at his own hand, he was certain that the price was yet to be paid.

Presently Wormtail screamed, a horrible scream of pure, petrifying fear, and Harry realised what had caused the reaction.

The Dark Mark had come to life, the inky lines of the snake undulating round and round his arm until the tail was completely free of the skull's mouth. The tattoo moved across his skin, the thin snake weaving its way up his arm where he still held the silver hand away from his neck. It slithered across his fingers and disappeared from view, and Harry realised with a sickening feeling in his stomach that, petrified as he was, he could not close his eyes against what was coming next, whatever it might be. He would be witness to the entire bloody spectacle whether he wanted to be or not.

The snake reappeared, gliding quickly over Wormtail's chin and vanishing into his still-screaming mouth, a scream that choked off suddenly with a nauseating gurgle. Blood began to pour from his mouth in a thick, ruby river, and as his eyes rolled back and he collapsed onto the ground, it was obvious to Harry that Peter Pettigrew, the Rat amongst rats, was dead. He had betrayed a debt, and he had paid the price, in doing so saving Harry's life. With the demise of the curser, the curse's effects were broken and Harry was once more able to move. He stumbled forward slightly, slipping on the grass that was now sodden with the scarlet flowing from the little man, and he grabbed the cloak from where Wormtail had dropped it earlier. He disapparated before the Death Eaters arrived, landing outside the Manor to find that all that remained of the one who had summoned them was a silver right hand lying innocently in a puddle of rapidly congealing blood…

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**Note2: **My first death! Is it weird that I feel rather proud at this point?

**Note3: **Since this is the last C&I update before Christmas, I'd like to take the opportunity to wish my dear readers a very happy holiday. Thanks for the comments so far and I hope you all continue to enjoy it. A peaceful and prosperous New Year to you all.

Kimmeth

X


	19. Two Strikes

**Note: **Only one chapter this week I'm afraid – I have been a bit busy with Christmas and everything, but I didn't want to miss another week. Anyway, I hope everyone isn't too stuffed with roast potatoes to enjoy the chapter. *Goes off into a roast potato fantasy.*

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**Chapter Nineteen**

**Two Strikes**

The Dark Lord was angry; the extremely calm and collected sort of anger that was all the more frightening to its intended recipients. Severus was not quite sure yet if he was included among their number. He had never held as much fear of the Dark Lord when the man was shouting and cursing in his anger. Like with anyone else subject to human wrath, when it took over in such a fashion, it meant that the sufferer was more than likely thinking with the heart rather than the head, and as such the anger was almost haphazard and therefore less dangerous. This cold silence, on the other hand, meant that the Dark Lord was most definitely thinking with his head, and Severus was certain that the outcome of the thought process would not be a pleasant one for whoever the anger was directed against. He was circling the table, pausing behind each chair in turn, and it took every ounce of his self-control not for Severus to flinch when he felt cold breath down the back of his neck. His associates were not quite so able; Draco had already hidden his shaking hands under the table but that could not mask the utter terror in his face.

Finally the Dark Lord stopped his pacing and stood behind his place at the head of the table.

"I think I speak for everyone present when I say that last night's _fiasco_ was at best embarrassing and at worst a woeful demonstration of a plague that appears to have been affecting our ranks for some time now. Miscommunication." The enunciation of the last word could have cut glass. "Let us take, for example, Mr Yaxley."

Severus's eyes automatically flickered to his pseudo-rival, who was now seated in Severus's old place on the left side of the table. He had taken their switched positions to be a sign in his favour, but one could never tell with a madman. Someone who was defined by unpredictability was in their very nature impossible to second guess. Whilst over the years Severus had become something of an expert in interpreting the Dark Lord's actions and emotions, even he could be derailed unexpectedly.

"Mr Yaxley," the Dark Lord continued, moving once more to circle the table, his ruby eyes never leaving his quarry, "had informed us that the Aurors, and then by default the Order, were unaware of Weasley's whereabouts. We know now, to our great cost, that this was not the case."

"My Lord," Yaxley began, desperate to defend himself, but his voice soon failed him under his master's unwavering stare.

"I know, Yaxley, I know, you did indeed express your reservations, which is commendable."

Yaxley looked extremely relieved.

"However, in future, we would rather work off hard, solid facts than speculation. Severus!"

The address had come so sharply and unexpectedly that Severus started.

"My Lord," he said at last, covering his moment of unease with as smooth a tone as he could manage.

"It is of paramount importance that you reingratiate yourself with McGonagall and the Order as soon as possible. Since it is evident that our other sources…" here he sent a particularly venomous glare in Yaxley's direction "… are dangerously inadequate, a trustworthy informer is required with a matter of urgency. Use any means necessary but…"

The Dark Lord broke off and looked sharply in the direction of the drawing room door, as if he had heard a sudden noise inaudible to all but him.

"I believe we have an uninvited guest. Rodolphus, if you could take care of the interloper?"

Rodolphus left the table and disappeared into the darkness beyond the door. A moment later he returned, holding Narcissa's arms behind her back in a vice grip as she struggled violently but ultimately fruitlessly against him.

"Let go of me," she growled, but her words fell on deaf ears.

"Madame," said the Dark Lord, his voice carrying a worrying note of anticipation. "How nice of you to join us. I do hope that you will find our meeting instructive, given how desperate you were to attend it. Where was I? Ah yes. Miscommunication."

He continued to pace, finally stopping behind Draco, and one by one, his pale, bony fingers closed over the back of the boy's chair.

"Draco…" he began softly, bending down so that he was level with the boy's ear, barely an inch separating them, "… is a prime example of this terrible miscommunication. As you all know, we left the care of this venerable old building in Draco's _capable_ hands last night, and as you all know, a small cohort of Order members managed to gain entry. When Draco found himself outnumbered by this cohort, one would think that his first reaction would be to call for his comrades for assistance. Unfortunately this was not Draco's first reaction. Draco's first reaction was to call for his _mother_."

Cruel laughter echoed around the table, and Severus glanced over at Narcissa. She had given up her useless struggle, standing limp and defeated in Rodolphus's grip, her sorrowful gaze fixed upon her son. Severus looked at Rodolphus, the war going on behind the man's eyes as clear as day. Rodolphus the Death Eater was waging a pitched battle against Rodolphus the brother-in-law, and it was impossible to tell which side of the man's splintered personality was winning.

Presently the Dark Lord moved away from Draco's chair, apparently changing the subject in a fingersnap, but Severus was not fooled by the sudden switch. The Malfoys' torment was not yet over.

"Potter was here last night. You failed to apprehend him. Fortunately, this is not such a gross catastrophe as it could have been, as it has allowed me more time to conduct a ritual that has been waiting to be done for some time now. As you are no doubt aware, as some of you have indeed witnessed, Potter's wand and mine share a core connection. Neither can kill whilst the other is still in possession of the phoenix wand."

Severus knew what was going to happen next, and he knew the chain of events that it would catalyse. His eyes flickered to Narcissa, a silent warning against doing anything rash.

"Draco," said the Dark Lord, coming to a stop behind the youngest of their corps once more. "Since you proved so woefully incapable of putting your wand to any sort of good use last night, I see no reason for you to keep hold of it."

Draco looked as if he was about to faint. All the blood had drained from his face, leaving him looking a corpse-like grey colour.

"My-my wand?" he managed to squeak out.

The Dark Lord held out a hand.

"I think it deserves a master who will put it to more noble use than its current one, don't you agree?"

Draco made no move, and the Dark Lord hissed in his ear with undisguised venom.

"Mummy can't help you know, Draco…"

There was silence in the room, broken only by Narcissa's muffled sobs. Severus glanced across the table and saw that Rodolphus the Death Eater had lost the fight, and he was accepting his sister-in-law's tears into his shoulder without a thought for the derisive stare from his wife that such an action was earning him.

Suddenly another sound broke through the silence, an unexpected one that made Severus turn his attention sharply back to the table. It was the sound of a chair being pushed back and a wand drawn out.

"My Lord."

Lucius had stood, and he was pointing his wand towards the Dark Lord.

"Lucius, what are you doing?"

"I am offering you my wand instead of Draco's." There was the slightest quaver of fear in his voice. Severus closed his eyes. He did not want to see this, any of it, and he wished, not for the first time, that covering his ears would not be so conspicuous. He wanted to get out of the room that was suddenly suffocating with its fraught tension.

"You would be prepared to take responsibility for Draco's failings?"

"If I had taught my son better, perhaps he would not have such failings."

There was silence for an inordinately long time, and Severus was forced to open his eyes to check that he had not fallen asleep or been rendered deaf by some miracle. The Dark Lord was now holding Lucius's wand, turning it this way and that in the light and studying it carefully. When he spoke again, his words were laced with a strange softness, almost a note of awe mingled with the evil anticipation. The most overwhelming emotion of all, however, was sweet triumph.

"I think that concludes our meeting for tonight, ladies and gentlemen. If you would be so kind as to leave us, I believe that Lucius and I have matters to discuss. Narcissa, as anxious as she is to learn of what goes on behind her doors, is, of course, welcome to join us."

It was an order, not a suggestion, and Severus felt an extreme and angering sense of helplessness. There was nothing he could do to prevent the inevitable. His comrades began to file out, unusually subdued, all of them knowing the course that the 'conversation' would take. Draco remained where he was, seemingly frozen in place until his father hauled him up by the collar and virtually threw him out of the room. As they passed in the doorway, Lucius gave Severus a barely perceptible shrug.

"What else could I do?" he hissed, and with that, the door swung closed in Severus's face. He stayed staring at the wood for a few moments, before a voice pulled him back.

"You think you're back on the right side, Severus…"

Yaxley came into his line of sight, his face twisted into an ugly expression that was part way between a scowl and a sneer.

"You think you're safely on the right side of the table but I'm watching you…"

Severus ignored Yaxley as he continued to speak, piling veiled threats upon veiled threats. The inevitable cursing had begun from the within the other room, and Severus could not try to shut out one sound without shutting out them all. He could see Yaxley's mouth moving, but he couldn't tell what the man was saying, nor did he, at that moment, give a damn.

Sound came back to his ears with a particularly loud thud from the drawing room, followed by Narcissa's voice.

"Stop it!" she was screaming, her words thick and choked with unchecked raw emotion. "Stop it! You're killing him!"

Severus did not like to think of what the consequences of Narcissa's intervention would be. The room went eerily quiet, the silence broken only by ragged panting and slow, pointed footsteps. Yaxley took this chance to give Severus a final sneer and melt away into the shadows.

"Would you prefer to take it instead, Madame?"asked the Dark Lord in a voice that in any other circumstances, coming from any other mouth, might have been pleasant.

Severus felt an iron-clad grip curled round his upper arm. He turned to find himself face to face with Draco.

"Do something," he mouthed, pleading with his teacher. "Please…"

Severus just looked at the boy, making no reaction. There was nothing he could do, and he needed to get back to Hogwarts and Minerva. He had had to cut short their rendezvous on the bridge unexpectedly, and she would be worried about.

There was a thump from the drawing room, the sound of a body hitting parquet, and the tiniest female whimper.

"No," growled Lucius's voice weakly. Draco broke eye contact with his professor and glanced towards the door, his grip becoming ever tighter. Severus wished that there was something he could do to alleviate the boy's anguish if nothing else.

"Your chivalry is admirable Lucius, but not a quality which we seek to encourage."

Severus forcibly dragged Draco away from the drawing room door as the relentless cursing began once more.

"Draco, I must leave," he said. Draco shook his head, and opened his mouth to say something but Severus glared at him and he closed it again. There was to be no negotiating. He took a deep breath. "There is nothing I can do. Whatever the outcome of your father's decisions might be, never let it be said that he does not know what he is doing. Right now, he is trying to protect you and your mother. If you do not let him, all that he has gone through will be in vain."

The words were harsh, Severus knew, but they were true. Any intervention at this stage would only make things worse.

"I have to return to Hogwarts," he continued. "Floo Madame Rosier at Hope House. She will be able to help you when the time comes."

Draco nodded minutely. Neither he nor Severus wanted to think of the possibility that such a time might never come, that Narcissa's screamed words might come true. Draco detached his hold from Severus's arm and let the older man pass through the corridor. He did not want to leave, but it was necessary. Such was the burden of serving two masters, of belonging to two completely different sets of comrades. Within each group, one made alliances, friendships, and one felt duty bound to honour those through to the end. But when the interests of one clashed with the interests of the other… It was then that Severus truly felt the strain of being a double agent. He liked to balance things out in his mind, a mental justification that almost, if he believed it hard enough, helped him believe that he was a neutral third party, allied to no-one but himself. It never worked truly, but in such times, doing what he did, it was as good a coping mechanism as any. He would not have survived as long as he had in this dangerous game had he not followed this particular way of thinking.

Ignoring the sounds from the drawing room, Severus left the house, disapparating as soon as he was beyond the boundaries of the Manor's protections.

Minerva was pacing up and down the head's office when he entered, and her surprise on seeing him was almost palpable.

"Oh Severus, you're alright! Are you?" she added hastily. He nodded.

"I believe I passed my test satisfactorily," he said drily. "So I felt no fear in returning to the castle now that I appear to have regained the Dark Lord's trust on these matters. It appears that in the wake of the incidents of last night, he seems to value my information more than his other, less reliable sources." He shook his head and gratefully sank into the chair that Minerva offered, suddenly feeling both very tired from his latest assignments and very aware of his surroundings. "But this was not really _my_ test."

"Let me guess. Draco Malfoy?"

Severus nodded as Minerva sat down in her own chair, Dumbledore's chair, the chair that she had never felt and still did not feel comfortable sitting in. For a brief moment, he wondered why she had not replaced it, but then he felt that perhaps Dumbledore had had some influence on that decision.

"We are going to have to watch him very closely this coming year, Minerva. If Dumbledore and I thought he was desperate before, that's nothing compared to how he is now. He came within a hair's breadth of being de-wanded tonight."

Minerva did not reply, resting her chin on her hands and staring out of the window for a long time. Severus knew what she was thinking. There were so many students under her care, and she could not hope to protect all of them all of the time, but if Severus knew Minerva, he knew that she was damn well going to try.

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**Note2: **I'm a bit worried about the lack of Minerva in recent and coming chapters – Minerva fans, please do not desert me! This story comes round in cycles, and she does not have a major role in the current one, but we will be back with her soon. After all, there is still a lot of book to come!


	20. The Healer of the Heartless

**Note: **Ok, brace yourselves – I've introduced an OC, something that always makes me slightly nervous. I offer no explanation or justification here, just see how you get on with her. She's not massively important to the plot, and hopefully her function will be satisfactorily explained during the course of the chapter.

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**Chapter Twenty**

**The Healer of the Heartless.**

The first thing that Lucius became aware of when he came back to reality was, of course, the pain. Every joint in his body felt like it was on fire. He was no stranger to the Cruciatus curse, but this was the first time that he had ever passed out under its effects. One would think that one would get used to the feeling, not tolerate it as such but remember and prepare oneself for the effects as they came, but this was not the case. It was not a feeling that one could ever get used to; each time the pain was as shocking and terrifying as the first. The second thing that he became aware of was a cold hand on his forehead. It was a very welcome cold hand, and he was angered when it moved away. He felt rather bereft without it as the throbbing pain in his skull threatened to overwhelm him. The third and final thing that he became aware of was a low muttering somewhere in his vicinity. Presently, the cold hand returned, providing blessed relief.

Lucius opened his eyes to find the world around him slightly blurry, but recognisable enough as the master bedroom. He wondered idly, since his head was too painful for him to try and think pointedly for any length of time, how he had managed to get up two flights of stairs whilst unconscious, and he attributed this move to the owner of the hand. He tried to sit up, but the voice that had been muttering, a voice no doubt attached to the hand, stopped him.

"Oh no. You stay put, young man."

If Lucius had been able to, he would have smiled at the now-familiar tone. There was only one person who called him 'young man'. Cold glass pressed gently but persistently against his lips.

"Drink," said the disembodied voice firmly, and Lucius swallowed obediently but reluctantly. The potion felt like fire as it rushed down his throat; its taste was so sickly sweet it was difficult to keep down but it began to work on his aching body almost immediately. Unseen hands removed the vial and replaced it with a no less fuzzy but much more welcome glass. "Just a sip this time."

The cognac chased the disgusting potion down and finally, Lucius's vision cleared, and the owner of his administrating voice appeared; a witch on the wrong side of fifty with stern blue eyes behind rimless spectacles and a perpetually worn-down expression. She sighed.

"Lucius Malfoy, you'll be the death of me." She flicked her head sharply and her long braid of hair, brown with a generous dusting of silver, swung over her shoulder. "You see all that grey? I swear you've caused more of it than my own children, and _that_ is saying something."

"It's good to see you too, Cam," Lucius replied weakly, wishing that his voice had not sounded quite so feeble.

Camilla Rosier's expression softened, her eyes melting from frustration into sadness.

"I'm glad you're awake, Lucius," she said, before shaking her head at her private train of thought. "You withstood quite a bit, or so I am told."

"Draco!" Lucius's mind flooded with panic for his son and he made to get up again, but Camilla's unnaturally cold hands on his shoulders forced him back down against the pillows.

"Goddamnit man! You've just undergone the worst torture of your life and I'm not done trying to rescue you from its effects yet so for the love of Merlin, will you lie still and let me do the worrying?" she exploded. The force of both her outburst and the glare that Lucius gave her in return seemed to weaken her steely resolve and she appeared to sag visibly under his eyes. "Draco's perfectly fine. He's keeping an eye on Ciss, who is sleeping off a shock tonic in the living room. Before you ask," she added quickly, holding up a finger as Lucius opened his mouth to speak, "she is physically unharmed, just shaken." She returned his glare with an equally powerful one of her own. "Can I get on now?"

Lucius, glad to hear that his family was safe and unhurt, nodded minutely and closed his eyes, and as Camilla resumed her ministrations, he found himself wondering at the role that she held within their ranks. 'The one who patches you all up after your ridiculous escapades'; that was how she described herself. It was a task that she shared with Severus; when the potion master's expertise in his field were unavailable, or when he was in need of the healer's hand himself, Camilla would step, unasked and mostly uncomplaining, into the breach. She had been one of the little band of wives who gathered with Narcissa to wait out the long nights when their men were out at the Dark Lord's beck and call; the company providing a small comfort and respite from the fear each woman felt should her lover not make it home. Of their select little group, Camilla was the only one to have lost her husband to the Veil, and this had made her remarkably protective of the other wives' other halves. She was determined that none of her friends would share her widowhood, and so she worked so hard to prevent such an occurrence.

It was an unwritten rule amongst the Death Eaters that whilst everything else in their line of work was excusable, justified, there was one place that remained untouched. The Death Eaters never crossed the threshold of St Mungo's. This was not out of deference to the sanctity of the Asklepian, but rather a desire to save face and save their skins. With regard to the former, it shattered their capacity for aloof terrorism if the Dark Lord's warriors had to drag one of their compatriots into St Mungo's emergency department; with regard to the latter, it was simply too dangerous for them. For those that the Death Eaters fought against, the hospital was truly sacrosanct. The healers were fiercely protective of their patients, and the Auror office took any calls from St Mungo's extremely seriously indeed. Thus, it had been unanimously and silently decided that any injuries received in their line of work, particularly those received at the hands of the Dark Lord himself, would be treated within their own ranks.

"There," said Camilla with a final poke of her wand – Lucius thought that she would have made an extremely effective Mediwitch in that respect. A tone of weak satisfaction came into her voice. "You are as fixed as it is possible for me to fix you." He opened his eyes as she handed him the half-filled brandy glass. "Drink up."

As he sipped the amber liquid, he watched Camilla stand from her position on the edge of the bed and stretch the cricks out of her spine, and he wondered how long she had been watching over him. She yawned and looked around, finally spotting her cloak draped over the chair in the corner of the room. She summoned it and wrapped it round her shoulders, impatiently flicking her braid out of the collar and fastening it before pushing her glasses up onto her head and blinking a few times to refocus on her patient from a longer distance.

"I am going to check on Ciss; she should be awake by now, and then I'm going home. Finn and Mareike will have been stewing all night." She paused. "I'm not going to stop you coming with me, but take it easy; if you collapse I will not be the one to pick you up again."

Gingerly, Lucius levered himself up. As desperate as he was to see his family again and reassure himself of their safety with his own eyes, he knew that Camilla was a hard taskmaster who would have absolutely no qualms about tying him to his bed to prevent him from moving if necessary. He swung his legs off the bed and Camilla watched him, ready to lend a supporting arm if required but also realising that Lucius had been humiliated enough that night without the added indignity of needing a woman a good decade older than him to help him up. He managed to get to his feet unaided and slowly followed Camilla out of the door. He remembered what she had said about his being more trouble than her children, and Lucius felt a pang of guilt. The widows, as Camilla herself had told him on a previous occasion, were often forgotten about. It was this that made her so confident of not feeling the Dark Lord's wrath herself when she helped his followers in the aftermath of their receiving the brunt of his anger.

"He won't bother with us," she had said. "He never bothers about the widows. We're as dead and useless as our husbands in his eyes."

"How is your family, Cam?" asked Lucius presently. Camilla started at the unexpected question.

"They are… thriving, Lucius. Alexandra is in America, safe I believe. She seemed fine in her last letter but I have not heard from her for over a month. They always say that no news is good news, but in these troubled times I am not so sure." She sighed and her voice became hard. "Of course, you know about Daniel."

Daniel Rosier, Camilla's son, had like so many young men followed in the footsteps of his father. But whereas Draco had been somewhat coerced into his taking of the Mark, Daniel had done so willingly, eagerly even, wanting nothing more than to champion the cause that his father, whom he idolised long into adulthood, had given his life for. It was a decision that he had fought bitterly with his mother about, and their friends had long given up hope of a reconciliation between Daniel and Camilla.

"After losing his father to it…" Camilla was murmuring to herself. "You'd think he'd be put off the call for life, but no…"

"The Dark Lord would have taken him as Evan's replacement in any case, Cam," Lucius said gently. "We do so often follow our fathers in that way."

"Oh, I know that it was inevitable; I accept that I would have lost him to the Dark Lord at some point. What I've always taken issue with is the enthusiasm with which he did it." Camilla sighed. "I mean, look at Draco, and Finn."

Thorfinn Rowle, since returning from Germany having been forced to take over his father's place in the ranks, had become a second son to Camilla. A friend of his family, she had offered him and his young wife space in her near-empty home, and it was clear that she considered the couple her third and fourth children.

"How is Finn? And Mareike, for that matter?"

Camilla's lips pressed together in a thin line, but the expression in her eyes was not one of disapproval, rather one of restraint, as if the action was keeping herself from revealing information that should not be revealed.

"They're fine," she said eventually. They had reached the living room by this point, and Camilla seemed glad of the excuse to break off the conversation. Something in her eyes seemed worried, but it was a different kind of worry to the one that she usually wore. Normally her expression was something akin to exasperation and pity, but now she was the picture of a worried parent. When the people she considered to be her children were all adults of their own right, all fighting in this interminable war in their own way, the risks and the responsibilities that they bore seemed so much greater, and the worries were naturally multiplied in the same way. It was only natural that Camilla should be worried for Alexandra, Finn, Mareike and even Daniel, but her eyes were, Lucius realised, more than worried. There was fear in them, a fear that had not been there a few days previously. Something had happened, something that Camilla was keeping close to her chest, and whatever had happened, she was scared by it. She broke away from his pointed stare and knocked politely on the living room door before entering.

Narcissa was sitting on one end of the chaise longue, her pale face hidden in her hands. Draco had an arm around her shoulders, but he stood as Camilla and his father entered. Aware of feeling her son's presence leave her side, Narcissa looked up, and on seeing Lucius alive and comparatively well, she jumped up and made to run into his arms, but Camilla stepped neatly between them.

"Sit," she said firmly, scooting the chaise a metre or so towards them with her wand. "There is to be no fainting on my watch. I categorically forbid it. I've had a long night of distress and revelations and I need my beauty sleep as much as any other witch on the wrong side of middle age does."

Narcissa and Lucius obeyed their elder's command and sank onto the chaise longue together. Narcissa immediately slipped her arms around Lucius's waist, resting her head softly against his chest; close enough to hear his heartbeat and reassure herself of his continued existence, but her touch light enough so as not to aggravate suppressed pains. He held her close, stroking her silky waterfall of hair; the intimacy a comfort to both of them. Neither was particularly given to public displays of affection, but at that point they were too relieved to care about the witnesses to their unguarded moment. Lucius cast a glance back at Camilla and although the older witch smiled, it was a sad smile, a tragic one. She was remembering what it was like to be held by her own husband like that, hugging her arms across her chest in an unconscious mimicry. It was clear just how deeply she missed Evan; how fresh the wound that his passing had cleaved in her heart still seemed, even after all these years without him at her side. She never wanted Narcissa to have to experience that aching loss, and that was why she fought so hard to heal what she could.

"Thank you Cam," said Lucius quietly. "I'll be fine now. You go home to your family."

Camilla nodded her silent thanks.

"I sincerely hope, Lucius, that the next time we meet, you are conscious. Remember the greys; I can't afford to get any more! I'm not _that_ old." She paused. "Good night Draco, Ciss."

"Good night Cam," murmured Ciss, raising her head from Lucius's shirt. "Thank you for everything." She smiled weakly. "Sometimes I don't know what we'd do without you."

"Oh, you'd manage," said Camilla. She began to leave the room and Draco made to come with her and show her out properly, but she shook her head.

"No pet, I'll see myself out. You stay here, your family needs you."

With a final, wistful look at the couple on the sofa, Camilla left the room, closing the door soundlessly behind her. Draco crossed to the chaise and sat down heavily next to his mother, who instinctively unlatched one arm from around her husband to draw her son closer in beside her. They stayed like that, silent, a little family unit, for a long time. Lucius found his thoughts coming back briefly to Camilla. He wondered at her resilience, and at the way she continued to fight so ferociously. He wondered what distress and revelations she was going home to, and he wondered what had made her so very frightened.

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**Note2: **We will learn more about Camilla's family in due course. Evan Rosier and Thorfinn Rowle really are Death Eaters, mentioned in the books, and Rosier really is dead, but since we know nothing about them other than this fact, I decided to embroider slightly… Anyway, I hope you got on with her, and I hope the message of this chapter managed to come across.


	21. The Lion, the Witch and the Wardrobe

**Note: **Well hello there again! I am back in Germany after my Christmas holidays and as such, the updates should be slightly more regular. C&I underwent a big overhaul last week, because I finally shed my ridiculous chapter length paranoia. So from now on, there will be some longer chapters, some shorter chapters, and some normal length chapters. I hope you enjoy this new offering.

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**Chapter Twenty-One**

**The Lion, the Witch and the Wardrobe**

Rufus Scrimgeour was the Minister of Magic. He was possibly the dourest Minister of Magic that the wizarding world had seen in recent decades, but given the circumstances, this was an understandable feature, and the nickname of 'Grimsceour' was not wholly unwarranted. As Minister of Magic, Scrimgeour understood that he had certain responsibilities that only a politician would have, such as lying through one's teeth with fingers crossed behind one's back, telling everyone that nothing was really as bad as it seemed; that the Death Eaters had not really infiltrated the Ministry as much as they had; that the bastion of freedom, democracy and a force for the good remained strong and unbreakable. Reassuring a public who simply would not be reassured because they knew that they were being lied to was no easy task, and not one that Scrimgeour had been looking forward to when he had taken on the post. Coming to think of it, why had he taken on the post? Because whilst Rufus Scrimgeour was most certainly the Minister of Magic, he was also an Auror.

Everyone knew that no-one could simply stop being an Auror, and the people who knew that most of all were the ex-Aurors themselves. The instincts, the training, the inherent wariness… They never left you behind, and neither did the principles of right and wrong that had driven you into the profession that drew the line between those two extremes in the first place. And every Auror, practising or former, knew that politics was the profession the furthest removed from the Auror Office as possible. Whilst Aurors drew a pointed line between the white of good and the black of evil, politicians walked a precarious tightrope of semi-truth that was a murky grey colour, the good and the bad mixed into each other so intricately that no-one could truly tell them apart. The public were not stupid, thought Scrimgeour. They knew the true extent of the situation, so why didn't he just admit it to them?

Because, despite his Auror's instinct telling him that honesty was always the best policy, Scrimgeour had to admit that he was no longer an Auror, and as such he should not be acting precisely like one. He was a politician now, however reluctantly, and since everyone expected politicians to lie about everything, he couldn't spoil their illusions by being the bunt and forthright man that his Aurors had once known. Scrimgeour sighed as he unlocked the door to his office, looking forward to sitting down away from the world and wallowing in the quagmire of his conscience for an hour or so, trying to make sense of everything that was being required of him at the moment, most of it contradictory. He had never really intended to become the Minister. He had been semi-coerced, semi-bamboozled into it by Fudge. Once the Ministry had decided that they needed a new, stronger leader – Scrimgeour couldn't disagree with them there – Fudge had decided to search himself out a replacement. Unfortunately, none of the more capable political staff within the Ministry wanted to go anywhere near the job, which had been when Fudge had suggested Scrimgeour.

He was the perfect candidate, really. He was a well-known figure in a well-respected position and he had been out of active Auror service due to his age for a year or so beforehand. Looking at the expectant faces of the Ministry election committee, Scrimgeour had been at a complete and uncharacteristic loss for words. It was only when it was insinuated that there was no-one else for the job that Scrimgeour had agreed, however reluctantly, to step into the breach.

But in truth, he was no better than Fudge. He had no idea how to handle the catastrophic situation in which they had found themselves any better than his predecessor had, but he did have one advantage over Fudge in that respect. Scrimgeour was an Auror, and Aurors did not show their weakness to the enemy. So Scrimgeour had gone ahead, lying through his teeth and wishing to whichever higher power was out there, if indeed there was one, that something would get better in the near future. He shook his head sadly. He would not wish this job upon anyone, except perhaps back on Fudge, who had lumbered him with it in the first place.

Scrimgeour locked the door of the office behind him – old habits died hard. He had barely sat down when something caught his attention, and the Auror within roared back into life from where he had been trying to keep it down whilst talking in 'politician mode'. He pulled out his wand and listened carefully. The Auror's best tools were his own senses. He had definitely heard a noise, a noise that definitely shouldn't have been there. It had sounded human, and since he was certain that he was the only human in the office, and he had not made the sound, something was amiss.

He concentrated hard; whilst the sound did not come again, he tried to remember the direction in which it had come from. He opened his eyes and his gaze alighted on the small cupboard in one corner of the room, where he kept his spare cloaks and a clandestine bottle of Bourbon. There was someone in the cupboard.

Scrimgeour rolled his eyes and walked over to the cupboard, keeping to the side so that he could not be sprung upon by his intruder. He raised his wand, and in one swift movement he had shoved it through the keyhole of the cupboard and cast a stunning spell. Even if he had been wrong and all he had succeeded in doing had been to stun his cloaks, one could never be too careful. He unlocked the door and a heap in a pinstripe suit fell out of the cupboard, landing in an ungainly crumple at Scrimgeour's feet. A wand rolled out of the figure's limp hand as Scrimgeour turned it over to find the identity of his would-be assailant.

"Fudge?" he exclaimed, disbelieving, but there was no mistaking the ex-Minister. Scrimgeour narrowed his eyes. It could have been Fudge, or it could have been an imposter pretending to be Fudge. Either way, someone had been hiding in his wardrobe and that someone had probably been in there with less than honourable intentions. But something still didn't quite add up.

"What kind of an idiot tries to assassinate an ex-Auror by hiding in a cupboard?" he grumbled, although he couldn't put anything past Fudge; the man's stupidity had at times seemed to know no bounds. Why would Fudge want to kill him in the first place? Scrimgeour prised open one of Fudge's eyes and saw the telltale glaze of an active Imperius curse. As he had suspected…

Suddenly, a cold wave of dread filled Scrimgeour, starting with his feet and working its way up until he could feel the ice running through every vein in his body. Only an idiot would try to assassinate the ex-Auror Minister of Magic by hiding himself or someone else in a broom cupboard, but the Imperius was not an everyday curse. To perform it well required skill and practice, and those who were so skilled and practiced in it were certainly not idiots. They were ruthless, evil, and above all, when it came to their previous two qualities at least, they were extremely and sadistically clever.

"What kind of an idiot indeed?"

Scrimgeour stood from Fudge's prone form and turned to face the new intruder slowly. They would not hit him in the back, he was fairly certain about that. They would want to gloat about their achievement in duping the ex-head of the Auror Office, one of the best Aurors that the Ministry had ever known, and about how they were about to kill the Minister and how once that was done, the Government would be theirs and total domination would be that one step closer.

Not if Scrimgeour could help it though. There was one responsibility of the Ministerial position that he had never held any qualms about undertaking whilst the other politicians did, by the very dint of his being an Auror. The Minister represented the entire wizarding population. He was the last thing that stood between them and total chaos and destruction; a lawless society. And as a former law enforcer, Scrimgeour was determined to protect them and their interests to the last. He viewed his new attackers, his real attackers. There were four of them, and he was only one, and he felt a small, bitterly ironic wave of pride that Voldemort should think him important enough to send his most trusted troops on this assassination mission. The three Lestranges and Dolohov, the professional torturer. Scrimgeour felt a wry smile ghost over his lips. This was going to be an extremely interesting little tea party.

"Can I help you?" he asked lightly, backing up towards the window of his office. Naturally, it did not actually lead anywhere, the entire Ministry was underground, but if his plan was going to work then he needed a distraction, and the heady storm that was brewing outside the window, cooked up by the maintenance wizards to express their own anger and fear at the political climate, would provide distraction enough. He only needed a few seconds… He clasped his hands behind his back in a classic politician's pose, causing Bellatrix's eyes to narrow. She too knew that Scrimgeour was not, in reality, a politician. Had he been, she would probably have come alone, without the heavy support. She knew he was up to something, but by the time she had cast the disarming spell, the others following suit meaning that there was no way of evading the magic, she was too late. His plan had worked. The spell had been cast.

The force of a quadruple disarming had sent him flying into the corner of the room opposite the damned cupboard, and Scrimgeour could not suppress a groan as he got to his feet. He had retired from the active Auror service for a reason; his bones were not what they had been.

"What did he just cast?" hissed Bellatrix, peering over his wand with mingled glee and suspicion. As he moved forwards quietly, trying not to draw attention to the direction in which he was limping, Scrimgeour wondered if she'd been mad before or if it really was just Azkaban. Surely any family with that degree of interbreeding must have some sort of genetic defects in there somewhere. Scrimgeour sighed inwardly, extremely glad that his mother had not held the same pureblood ideals and had married a Welsh sheep farmer who was about as magical as an old sock.

Rodolphus cast the priori incantatem and a roaring silver mountain lion burst out of the tip of his wand. Scrimgeour always felt a surge of pride on seeing his patronus, and its fearsome face gave him the impetus he needed to bring about the final stage of his hastily improvised plan. He shot forward with a burst of speed and picked up Fudge's wand where it had rolled under his desk, whirling round and firing off a series of spells at his assassins before they had time to pre-empt his attack. Forced into a defensive rather than an offensive position; Scrimgeour smiled grimly on seeing the anger on Bellatrix's face. Once an Auror, always an Auror. All he needed to do was to hold them off until help arrived, which should be any minute…

A shape apparated by his side. The patronus that he had sent had held no message, just a spell, a spell that would allow the recipient to bypass the secure charms on his office and come straight to his aid.

"Rufus," grunted Moody by way of acknowledgement, dodging a hex that Dolohov had just rebounded back at him. "Glad to see you've got everything under control."

"Well, it's always nice to see an old friendly face," said Scrimgeour, although he would not admit the blessed relief that was pounding through his veins on the receiving of some assistance.

"I came as quickly as I could," said Moody. "I knew something was wrong but I never realised that you would have a vermin infestation of this magnitude on your hands."

Perhaps it was the comparison to a rat that had driven Bellatrix into the highest point of ire, Scrimgeour didn't know, but it was with her shrieked command that the attack suddenly tripled in intensity, destroying what little furniture remained in the room at that point. They were equally matched, advanced experience negating advanced years, and blind enthusiasm making up for any lack of skill on the part of the Death Eaters. But the Death Eaters were not lacking in skill, not by any manner or means, and there were four against two. Somewhere along the line, someone would not be able to keep their eyes everywhere at once, and when that happened, catastrophe would strike.

They held out remarkably long considering, but not long enough for Scrimgeour to call for further back-up. He doubted any would come anyway; the Lestranges had no doubt left a trail of bodies behind them on their way to find him and distract him with Fudge. Duelling Dolohov, Scrimgeour did not see the flash of green coming towards him from the side until it was too late. Before it could reach him, however, a sharp pain in the back of his knees sent him sprawling onto the ground. His wand flew out of his grip but before he could try and reach it, another body landed heavily on top of him. As he watched a bright blue eye roll away along the floor, he realised with a sinking heart and rising bile what had happened. Moody had kicked him out of the way and in doing so, taken the killing curse himself.

"Well well well," said Bellatrix, stepping over Moody to crouch down in front of Scrimgeour, twirling his wand between her fingers and seeming to be lost in thought. He felt strong hands pull Moody's body off him and then haul him to his feet, dragging him across to the battered desk. A split second before they dumped him on it, he felt his entire body go rigid, petrified. "I wonder what the Evening Prophet's headline will be today then?" Bellatrix continued, circling around the desk. "I can picture it now. Ahem." She affected a tragic voice. "We of the Evening Prophet are sorry to announce the tragic death of the Minister of Magic, Rufus Scrimgeour. Mr Scrimgeour was ambushed this afternoon in his office by one of his ex-Aurors, Alastor Moody, and the former Minister of Magic, Cornelius Fudge, both of whom were killed in the ensuing violence. It is believed that Mr Moody, known to suffer from severe mental problems and paranoia, had suffered a nervous breakdown before resolving to attack the Minister, first using the Imperius curse on Mr Fudge and then, when this attempt failed, in person." She smiled evilly, leaning in so that she was less than an inch from Scrimgeour's frozen face. The look melted into one of contempt and she spat in his eye before stalking away. "A half-blood in charge of the Ministry indeed."

Scrimgeour couldn't move, but he could hear them kill Fudge, who had remained slumped on the floor throughout the entire battle. Bellatrix returned to his field of vision.

"Now," she said, "we can do this the easy way, or the hard way. You can tell us where Harry Potter is, and then we kill you, or you can refuse to tell us where he is, we can torture you, and then we can kill you. Which is it to be?" She paused. "We know that you know where he is, Minister. With so many Aurors, so many _old friends_ in the Order, you must be in possession of the knowledge."

Scrimgeour was indeed in possession of the knowledge. But Scrimgeour was also an Auror.

One of the brothers lifted the body-bind, and deprived of a wand, Scrimgeour did the next best thing, launching himself at the nearest one of his attackers in a frenzied physical assault. He knew that it would be of little use, but he also knew that he could not do nothing. He would go down fighting, fighting till the bitter end just like the rest of his career had been one long fight against the dark. He would die as he had lived. He would die an Auror.

"The hard way it is then."

Scrimgeour had borne pain in his line of work as a matter of course. This was no different. It was worse, but no different. All he had to do was clamp his jaws shut and get on with it.

"Are you feeling any more inclined to talking now?" asked Bellatrix, her voice exceedingly bored. "Since you're going to end up dead at the end of it anyway, why don't you just spare yourself any more trouble? Potter has made life difficult enough for you over this past year, you might as well return the favour before you expire."

Scrimgeour shook his head, too winded and drained to speak at that point. He knew that if he opened his mouth, all that would come out would be a scream of pain, and he was not going to give them that satisfaction.

"Oh this is ridiculous," said Bellatrix suddenly, "and someone's coming. Finish this!"

She disapparated, husband and brother-in-law following shortly afterwards.

"Any last words?" asked Dolohov.

"Four," Scrimgeour gasped. "You. Will. Never. Win."

Then there was green, and after that, there was nothing.

* * *

**Note2: **Ok, three down in one chapter. It never rains but it pours, eh?


	22. Fight and Flight

**Note: **This is sort of a double-bill in that it is two chapters spliced together into one, so it is double the length of an average chapter.

**Note2: **I hereby blame David Eddings for everything that is wrong with this chapter. I recently discovered the Belgariad and I have been reading it avidly ever since. As a result, all thoughts of Harry Potter were chased out of my head…

* * *

**Chapter Twenty-Two**

**Fight and Flight**

"Got it!"

Hestia slammed her quill down on the Burrow kitchen table with an expression of triumph. For the past few days she did not appear to have moved from her position, scribbling away on whatever scraps of parchment that she could find and either unaware of or actively ignoring the frantic bustle that had been going on around her ever since Mr Weasley's return.

"Hermione!" she called, although Harry doubted that his friend would hear her. He didn't think that he had ever known the Burrow to seem so full and busy, and considering its normal state of cosy and welcoming chaos, this was saying something indeed. Virtually every Order member one could name had been in or out over the week, paying their respects to Mr Weasley and gifting the family with an eclectic assortment of items ostensibly intended to help his recovery; Harry wasn't quite sure whether Mundungus's dubious looking (and probably stolen) gooseberry pie would do more harm than good. The inedible desserts of the light-fingered aside, the house was bursting at the seams with fruit, flowers, cockroach clusters and the occasional guest who had been seated in a corner whilst the family attended to something else and then promptly forgotten about until three days later. The influx of Order members had a more serious side, however. Meetings were being held almost twice daily, their aim being the increased security of the Order's forces. Since Mr Weasley's capture, all their efforts had been focussed on getting him back. Now that they had been successful, the next obstacle had to be tackled: preventing such an occurrence from ever happening again. Harry had no idea what conclusions had been reached, if any. All he knew was that there seemed to be a lot of shouting going on to no great end.

To top it all, Hermione was dithering. She had been subdued ever since Mr Weasley had been taken, a perfectly natural reaction, but now she was definitely getting cold feet about the mission that they had sworn to do. She had been constantly weighing up the pros and cons of going back to Hogwarts again against going searching for the horcruxes. Ron had not said anything, but Harry knew how much the past few weeks had shaken him, and he knew that if Hermione bowed out, then the likelihood was that Ron would follow her. Harry would not begrudge them this decision, should they come to make it. He had originally intended to make this perilous and precarious journey alone; it was Hermione and Ron's own stubbornness that had resulted in their accompanying him in the first place. However, Harry couldn't deny that it would have been useful to have Ron's dogged loyalty and Hermione's seemingly interminable knowledge at his fingertips, and if he was being brutally honest with himself, it would have been nice to have some company on what was undoubtedly going to prove a difficult and lonely mission.

If Harry was being _really_ brutally honest with himself, he had to admit that his feet were also feeling slightly nippy at the prospect, and he too was looking upon the roaring fires of Hogwarts with some degree of longing. He thought back to Professor McGonagall's words when she had first come to transport him away from the Dursleys' house. It seemed so long ago now. There had to be a reason for her wanting to see the three of them back at Hogwarts come September, a reason that was not merely the responsibility of a headmistress to her pupils. He shook his head absently, wondering at her reasons and motivations. Although Harry trusted the older witch implicitly and he would never say otherwise, he had more than once received the distinct impression that she knew more about their situation than she was letting on, and this frustrated him. For so long, the adults in his life had kept things from him for his own protection, and whilst he accepted their point of view, and he accepted their reasoning, he couldn't help but think that now he was of age, he was able to make the distinction for himself about what was potentially dangerous in the world and what wasn't. After all, he had faced more danger in his seventeen years of being than… He broke off the thought, forcing himself to accept that it probably was not the case. The other Order members were living through their second war, and it would be unreasonable to try and think that he had faced more threat to his life than the rest of them put together. But then again, as far as he knew, none of them were the subject of a ridiculous prophecy made by a ridiculous woman, a prophecy that seemed to have set his fate in stone. The thought of Professor Trelawney brought Harry's mind full circle, back to Hogwarts and the inherent security that he had always felt inside its strong walls. It was true, the castle was not completely infallible. It had been infiltrated by many an evil force over the years; indeed Harry had faced most of them… He swiftly moved the direction of his thoughts away from Snape before he damaged the table that he was gripping like iron. Yes, Professor McGonagall must have some unknown reason for wanting him to go back to Hogwarts; but Harry could not simply forget his duty to the former headmaster. Professor Dumbledore had trusted Harry with this task and Harry alone, and that had to account for something in the grander scheme of things.

Presently Hermione entered the kitchen, miraculously having heard Hestia's shout over the hustling and bustling of the rest of the household, and she came over to look over the older witch's shoulder at her page of ink splattered calculations.

"I think I've worked out why the Polyjuice potion didn't work as effectively as we'd thought," Hestia said excitedly. "It was because we kept it warm, kept it simmering past the date that we were meant to use it. If we'd just bottled it up and left it I think it might have been alright…"

Harry stood and left the room silently, leaving the two witches to their technical jargon and theorising. He was suddenly restless, suddenly eager to leave the security of the Burrow and do something, his safety be damned. He had not meant to leave it so late before setting off on his journey to search out the Horcruxes, and there was no time like the present. He was about to creep upstairs quietly and fetch his bag without anyone noticing, before the voice in his head that sounded remarkably like his female friend put a stop to that. He could not betray the Order by simply sneaking off like that, and in his restless, fractured state of mind he knew that he would be a sitting duck for anyone who was waiting beyond the boundaries of the Burrow's formidable defences. It was in that moment that Harry realised what he needed to do.

He made his way up the stairs of the Burrow towards the room in which Mr Weasley was recovering from his ordeal. Harry had just realised that he had not spoken to Ron's father since Lupin, Moody and Bill had rescued him, and now he felt the overwhelming urge to talk with him.

He met Madame Pomfrey coming out of the door that he was about to enter through. The Hogwarts mediwitch had become a sort of resident nurse for the Order in the school holidays, and she had been doing an admirable job of patching up Mr Weasley and Mr Ollivander. Although there were no reports of Voldemort attempting to infiltrate St Mungo's, the Order had felt much more comfortable not venturing out of the boundaries of their known associates unless absolutely necessary. When Mr Weasley had been taken with such ease, it had truly hammered home the point that one could trust no-one in this bleak zeitgeist.

"How is he?" asked Harry of the nurse. The witch smiled encouragingly.

"He is healing remarkably well," she said. "Not many people would expect it of Arthur but he is a tremendously resilient soul. Hope is a wonderful healer, Harry. Often it is a medicine far better than any I can give, and Arthur is absolutely full of hope."

Harry wondered at the words, oddly philosophical coming from a woman who was as straight-laced as they came, indeed she and Professor McGonagall made a formidable pair in that respect. He nodded his goodbye to Madame Pomfrey and knocked on the door of the room that she had just left.

"Come in," called Mr Weasley. His voice was slightly weaker than normal, but it had lost none of its customary cheerfulness. Harry entered cautiously. "Ah, Harry. How are you?" Mr Weasley looked up from the muggle magazine that he had been gazing at in rapt fascination and smiled wanly at his visitor. Harry recognised the tome as the latest edition of Technology Weekly and hid a grin.

"I'm fine thank you. I really came to see how you were."

"Ah, I shall be fine, Harry. Everything can be mended, or so Madame Pomfrey tells me. I'm not quite sure why medicinal magic has always had to involve quite so many disgusting potions but that's the way of the world." He looked around him at the small but homely bedroom and the many pillows that he was propped up against. "I must admit though, I am feeling slightly useless at the moment. I keep asking Molly if there's anything I can do but everyone insists that I simply rest and recover." A small furrow of worry appeared between Mr Weasley's eyebrows. "I mean, the Order's stretched enough as it is without my being out of action for however long Poppy is determined to keep me bedbound." He must have caught Harry's forlorn expression then as he forced the concern out of his visage and pointed to a Playstation on the page in front of him. "Now Harry, have you got any experience with these things?"

Harry shook his head; although he had been brought up around Dudley, who had always had the best of everything and the latest technology, it was technology that in earlier years he had never been allowed to be around and lately had never wanted to be around, so he was as in the dark as to the precise electrical workings of the games console as Mr Weasley was.

There was a companionable silence for a moment, before Harry spoke again, saying the words that he had not really had chance to say yet and that needed to be said.

"Thank you. For…" He was not quite sure how to continue. For taking two and a half weeks of torture in a cellar for me? No, that was not the right way of wording it. Luckily, Mr Weasley seemed to understand the direction in which he was going with the sentence and saved him the floundering.

"Don't mention it," he said, patting Harry's shoulder. "It's what families do. They stick together and they protect their own."

Harry thought about the simple phrase, spoken so calmly and so truthfully, and the words hit home, deeply. He had never really considered himself to be a part of a family before. With the Dursleys he had always seemed set apart from them; although they were his only real relations, the bad blood between them ran thicker than water, and he had always spent his enforced time with them feeling estranged and alone. The only place that he had truly felt at home and amongst friends was at Hogwarts… There it was again, the little string wrapped around his heart pulling him inexplicably back towards the castle. But now it was clear to him that all the friends that he had made during his time at Hogwarts – in fellow students, in teachers and in the various associates thereof – were more than simply friends. The people who made up the Order and particularly those who dwelled in the Burrow were his true family. They had adopted him into their hearts as fully and as without reservation or condition as they would their own kin, and Harry was overwhelmed by the simple and powerful ability of love and compassion that Mr and Mrs Weasley seemed to possess.

He thought about his family and its extended branches – Moody, Tonks, Lupin, Kingsley, even Mundungus. They were most certainly the weirdest and most dysfunctional family that anyone could care to meet – Harry entertained a brief but amusing thought of the fallout that would ensue should his real family and his adopted family take part in Wife Swap. But despite this, or perhaps because of it, they were a true family. After all, which household was not complete without the occasional oddball, or the occasional argument resulting in Mundungus being transfigured into a radish by person or persons unknown?

Mr Weasley gave a hastily suppressed but telltale yawn. As bright as his demeanour seemed to be, it was still very evident that he was in no way back to full strength yet and would probably be confined to the Burrow for a good few days to come. Harry decided that it was probably time to leave, but his wildly flying thoughts seemed to be far more at peace having performed this deceptively simple but still to his mind exceedingly important task. He rose to leave.

"Thanks again."

Mr Weasley nodded as he closed his eyes, but Harry was not sure if he had heard him. As he was coming out of the room, he nearly bumped into Ginny. She was wearing the drawn, nervous look that she had been sporting for the majority of the past month, indeed, ever since he had arrived at the Burrow back in the middle of July. Whilst she had been smiling more readily of late in the wake of her father's return, their circumstances were still having a draining effect on her, and Harry knew that his presence was not exactly helping matters for either of them when it came to suppressing undeniable and inopportune feelings.

"Professor McGonagall's just arrived," she said. "She wants to see you, Ron and Hermione downstairs."

Harry gulped inwardly. This would be the first time since Mr Weasley's return that they had seen the headmistress, and the start of term was swift approaching. Now that the most pressing concern of locating their missing Order member was no longer forefront of her mind, Harry had no doubt that she would have turned her attentions back to persuading him to return to Hogwarts, and in his current state of indecision, he feared in that moment that this might be the time in which he succeeded. Harry took a deep breath before going downstairs to face the headmistress once more.

Professor McGonagall seemed to have aged an awful lot in the time that Harry had been separated from her; as if the concerns of the unenviable position in which she had found herself were showing on her face. Hermione and Ron were already seated in the corner of the living room that they had occupied when they had first had this discussion, their expressions neutral as he sat in the place that they had made between them. Although it would have been easier for them to simply squeeze up and make room at the end of the sofa, Harry found it bitterly fitting that he should be centre stage for this confrontation, the ringleader of the quiet rebellion as he was.

Professor McGonagall acknowledged his arrival with a brief nod of her head and paused before speaking, closing her eyes as if she was mentally preparing herself for the battle she was no doubt going to have to commence.

"Why is it always you three?" she murmured under her breath, partially to them and partially to herself. "From the moment you walked in through the gates, you seem to have been very adept at attracting all sorts of unsavoury things into your vicinity." She stopped and seemed to come back to herself then, opening her eyes and fixing them with her sternest look. "There can be no doubt that you all know why I'm here. The start of the term is fast approaching, and I would like to know whether I will be seeing you at Hogwarts come the beginning of September. I am also going to take this opportunity to remind you, forcibly if I must, of the dangers of taking the other option."

She paused again, and Harry could see the fight going on behind her eyes; the difficulty with which she was speaking.

"It is not fair to resort to emotional blackmail in an attempt to sway your thoughts but please, think about what has just happened to Arthur Weasley. The soul reason he was taken was for your whereabouts, Mr Potter. What do you think will happen if Voldemort realises that you are not where you are supposed to be, at Hogwarts? You have met him enough times not to underestimate him. At least," her eyes flashed dangerously, "I should hope that you do not underestimate him for it would be an extremely foolish downfall if you did. He will stop at nothing to find you. Arthur will not be the last." She sighed. "Harry, you said yourself that you did not want anyone else to be hurt on your account, to suffer because of you. If you do not return to Hogwarts then he will make everyone close to you suffer until he finds out where you are. I understand that this is something that you need to do, something that you have a pact with Albus about, but you must try and see it from my point of view as well. I am trying to find a middle ground that will provide the best possible protection for everyone, and I cannot do that if you are who-knows-where searching for something that you have no idea where or what it is, and the Order is under even more of a threat than usual thanks to your having disappeared off the face of the Earth."

The cold words struck home deep in Harry's heart, and the futility of their quest began to bubble up in his stomach like acid reacting to a base. In McGonagall's crisp, clear expression, the idea that had always seemed so far away suddenly seemed so impossible. In that same moment, he felt anger overriding the growing sense of panic; a hundred and one counter-arguments to throw at the headmistress forming in his mind but all of them half-thought out and contradictory.

"Harry, your postponing of this mission does not mean that it has to be classed as a failure before it begins," said Professor McGonagall, her tone as gentle as her stiff manner could probably allow. "We are here to help you, all of us, all of the Order. When it comes to looking for these bloody things, many pairs of eyes are better than one. Delegation. That was always Albus's failing, and, as his protégé, he has naturally passed it on to you. He always had a crippling need to do everything himself, just as you need to do this yourself. But you _don't_."

Harry's mind was in turmoil. He had no idea how to reply, how to argue a position that, deep within him, he did not know if he truly wanted to argue. Half an hour before he had secretly been hoping for an excuse to give up his onerous undertaking and return to the simplicity of life at Hogwarts. There was only one doubt, only one spectre looming over his shoulder that had to be resolved before he made his decision.

"If I return to Hogwarts," he said levelly, "and Voldemort knows that I have returned there, won't he simply come for me there and be done with it?"

Professor McGonagall did not reply for the moment.

"No," she said finally. "Well, I do not believe that he will. Nothing is certain. I have the feeling that nothing will be certain again. Hogwarts is a safe haven, probably the last safe haven, and even now it is tainted in the wake of Albus's death. Safe havens fall best and most _entertainingly…_" the last word was spoken with the hiss of contempt in her voice "when they wither gradually. He will not risk everything in an all out assault. Besides, the protections that the castle can afford to you are far greater than anywhere else in the country. Not only do old buildings have a unique magic of their own, there are more people to come to your assistance within Hogwarts' walls. We teachers are rather good at magic you know," she added wryly on seeing the involuntary quirk of Harry's eyebrow at her statement.

It was so tempting, thought Harry, so very tempting. He struggled internally, trying to think of a reasonable argument that did not sound like the whining of a petulant child, but before he could give any sort of response to Professor McGonagall's impassioned speech, the door of the living room burst open to reveal Kingsley and Tonks.

"We've got to scatter," said Kingsley, "they're coming. The Ministry's fallen. Scrimgeour's been murdered. Moody's dead too. We tried to get there but it was too late."

"How…" began Harry, but Tonks cut him off.

"No time," she panted. "Scram! They're on their way!"

Harry was half in and half out of his seat, not quite sure where he was thinking of going, when he felt a firm grip encircle his wrist and the jerk of an apparition swirling him through space to a destination unknown. His first terrible thought was that the Death Eaters had appeared without his noticing them and his journey would be over before he had even had the chance to tell Professor McGonagall what he had decided, but as he felt himself rematerialise and stumbled onto the ground at the point of their landing, he heard the Ron and Hermione's voices, sounding worried but not as if they had just been captured by masked entities intent on their destruction. He got to his feet and brushed himself down, taking in his surroundings. They were standing in Grimmauld Place outside the Order's old headquarters: he, Ron, Hermione and Professor McGonagall.

"It is a good job that we both thought of the same destination, Miss Granger, or else there could have been some serious repercussions of our slightly unorthodox transport," said the older witch, her words as clipped as ever but a definite shake in her voice betraying her fear at the sudden turn that the events had taken. "Quickly, let's get inside. This should offer us some protection for the time being." Together they walked up the steps towards the foreboding front door, and it was only after he had noticed the expectant expressions on the faces of the others that Harry realised they were waiting for him to open the door. After all, it was his house. Harry had still, after over a year, had not become all that used to the notion of his owning a house. He tapped his wand against the lock and the door swung open onto the darkened hallway.

"It's not ideal," admitted Professor McGonagall. "Now that the secret keeper has died, the protections that such a charm offers may as well have been rendered void, but it will serve. They should not be able to…"

She paused on the doorstep, holding up her hand for silence and then, without any further warning, spinning around on her heel and firing a hex at an unseen third party somewhere in the shadows. At first, Harry thought that she was merely being as paranoid as Moody had always been, but when he had to duck to avoid the curse's rebounding off a hastily cast shield charm, he knew that this was not the case. He, Ron and Hermione drew out their wands, ready to assist their professor, but he could not readily see where he was meant to be aiming. Another curse flew over their heads, straight into the empty house behind them, and it hit the covered portrait of Mrs Black that hung therein, causing it to come away from the wall with an almighty crash and an even louder scream from its subject.

Professor McGonagall cast a stunner and there was a small groan and a thump from the direction in which they had been attacked, and then there was silence for a long time.

"I think there was only one of them," she said. "I wasn't sure but I thought that something might have caught hold of the tail of our apparition." Harry just looked around them, watching out for any more attackers that might be out there. He had been living in the magical world for six years now, but he still didn't have a grasp of all the terminology that seemed to come so easily to the professor, and indeed to Hermione.

"Well, there's little use standing out here," said the headmistress briskly. "Let's get inside before any more turn up."

She bustled them into the house, taking charge in her calm, no-nonsense manner. After she had closed the door behind them and Hermione had provided some illumination, they paused to take stock of their situation.

"Well, I think it is obvious that…" began Professor McGonagall.

"OUTRAGE!" screamed Mrs Black, slightly muffled where she lay face down against the floor, but still louder than if she had been hidden behind her curtain.

"Oh will you be quiet!" snapped Professor McGonagall irritably. "We've got better things to do than listen to your idiotic screeching." She waved her wand in a motion that was remarkably akin to swatting a fly, and Mrs Black's indignation became distinctly quieter. The professor gave a small smile of grim satisfaction. "When you spend most of your life in a castle in the company of several pictures of variable intelligence, you do pick up some useful little charms. Now, where were we?"

They made their way into the kitchen, taking care to step over the portrait of Sirius's mother; as Professor McGonagall explained, the spell wasn't permanent, and they didn't want to give her any more reason to shout when it faded than necessary. Once in the kitchen, Hermione seemed to recover quickly from the shock of their being attacked on the doorstep and set about making cups of tea for them all.

"As I was saying," the older witch began, "I think it's obvious that we cannot stay here now that the Death Eaters know that it is one of our safehouses, and it is also obvious that we will have to move on very soon before our unwanted guest wakes up and manages to alert his fellows to our presence here." She paused. "The only problem is, I don't know where we can go."

They sat around the kitchen table for what felt like an age, each wearing similar expressions of deep and pensive thought. Harry wondered what he could do. This seemed like the perfect point at which to start their journey for the horcruxes; indeed it would be advantageous to have them simply disappear, unable to be found because they themselves didn't really know where they were going. This plan, however, left the undeniable problem of Professor McGonagall. She would have to return to the school and the running of the Order, and after the brief skirmish that they had just experienced, Harry had no doubt that she would not let them start on an exceedingly ill-planned mission.

Suddenly, Harry had an idea, and he didn't know why he hadn't thought of it before.

"Hogwarts," he said.

"I beg your pardon?" asked Professor McGonagall.

"Why don't we go to Hogwarts?" he continued. "You yourself said that it's the safest place in the country. You said that we'd be safe there if we went back at the start of term, why not simply move that forward a few days? What would the difference be? It's not as if the castle isn't exactly equipped for visitors, and students stay during the Christmas and Easter holidays. Why not summer too?"

"Harry!" exclaimed Hermione with a shocked tone, as if suggesting that they return to the castle before they were strictly meant to was the height of impropriety, but Professor McGonagall held up a hand to stop her.

"You're right," she said to Harry. "Hogwarts is indeed the only solution. The rest of the Order will have gone underground and it will be hard to find them unless they want to be found, which I doubt is the case at the moment. No, we would have to wait for everyone to come out of hiding. Hogwarts is the best place." She paused. "There is just one requisite that I will attach to your returning to Hogwarts early, Mr Potter, and that is that you do not simply use it as a safe haven until the beginning of term and then disappear off on your quest. Not only will I myself feel exceedingly ill-used, the castle itself will not appreciate the misuse of its hospitality. If you return to Hogwarts now, then you are returning for the entirety of the school year."

Harry nodded, part of him disappointed at this outcome, but a far greater part secretly relieved to have an excuse to break off his mission. Yet another part of him felt guilty, a horrible, slowly creeping and gnawing sort of guilt that was snidely accusing him of betraying Dumbledore's trust.

Professor McGonagall seemed to catch his expression.

"The headmaster will understand, Harry," she said softly. "This is a great burden for one alone to bear, and I think that the time has come for that burden to be distributed between the Order, if only a little."

Harry nodded.

"But what about our stuff?" asked Ron, identifying the practical problems as always. "All our school things are still at the Burrow."

Professor McGonagall smiled wryly.

"Don't worry about that," she said. "Things are easier to hide and locate than people. I shall make a quick detour to the Burrow and meet you at Hogwarts. The house should be deserted; there would be no reason for anyone to remain once the Order left."

Hermione spoke up at that point.

"Shouldn't we make it look as if we're still here?" she asked. "I mean, it would give us a bit of a head start if the Death Eaters still think that we're here and waste time trying to catch us."

"Excellent thinking Miss Granger."

Hermione needed no further prompting and jumped up from the table to start making the house look occupied, but not too obviously occupied. After all, the Death Eater outside knew, painfully, that they knew he had been there, and as a result, however long they stayed in the house, they were not going to make themselves too known.

Once she was finished, they recongregated in the kitchen.

"The gates of Hogwarts," said Professor McGonagall. The others nodded, and with a crack, the next stage of their journey had begun.

* * *

**Note3: **So what did you think? Hope you enjoyed the longer-than-usual chapter. Coming up: an insight into what happens in Hogwarts when the students aren't there…


	23. The Hallowed Halls of Hogwarts

**Note: **Only one chapter this week and not a double length one, but all being well the double bills should return next Monday! Hopefully the pace should pick up a bit now. Having spent over twenty chapters describing a month and a half of summer, now that the beginning of term is approaching, things should start to go quicker. I do plan to have this finished before the final film comes out, amazingly enough.

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**Chapter Twenty-Three**

**The Hallowed Halls of Hogwarts**

_CHANGES AFOOT IN THE MINISTRY_

_Only a day into its tenure and the new administration is already making considerable changes to the way in which our Ministry is run. Central to their plans are extensive reforms of the British magical education system. _

"_Hogwarts School of Witchcraft and Wizardry has always fallen on the very periphery of the Ministry's jurisdiction," says the head of the new Ministerial Committee for Re-Education, Dolores Umbridge. "As a result of this, the standards of magical education in Britain may be falling dangerously below those in the rest of Europe. It is time for the Ministry to act to prevent this from happening. Naturally we will leave the day to day running of the school in the capable hands of Minerva McGonagall, but it is clear that Ministerial Intervention is once more needed…"_

Minerva slapped the newspaper down on the desk, the vitriol in her head making the words swim on the page in front of her and rendering reading impossible. Not that she needed to read it of course. The list of new measures that it went on to detail had been sent to her that morning, special delivery, and now the words were indelibly printed inside her mind. She rested her elbows on the desk and her head in her hands. She had scheduled an emergency staff meeting for the next day in order to discuss the new measures, and she had said that she would put off thinking about them until then, but she could not seem to push the foreboding print from her consciousness.

The only good thing to come of these new measures was that she no longer needed to worry about justifying Severus's return to his post. As he had predicted, steps had been taken to ensure his tenure. The first measure on the list was that he returned to both his old teaching position and the post of deputy. In a way, Minerva felt a bitter sort of triumph with this announcement. No doubt the powers that be had done this in order to try and chip away at the school's confidence from the top of the pile, little knowing that their actions would in fact do nothing of the sort; that Severus's elevated position in the school would have no bearing on its running whatsoever. It was that grim satisfaction that had allowed her to read the rest of the changes that had been forced upon her beloved establishment without completely breaking down into an incoherent heap.

Defence Against the Dark Arts had ostensibly been removed from the curriculum as a subject. Whilst the new Ministry had simply renamed it 'Dark Arts and Self-Defence', Minerva had taken a look at the 'Committee-approved' booklist that had been sent out with the changes, and she knew from the nature of the works that there was going to be a lot more focus on the Dark Arts and a lot less on the defence. She could only hope that Severus would twist the rules to his advantage and continue to teach in much the same way as he had last year. Knowing that she was not going to be able to get any peace of mind until she confronted it, Minerva ran through the list mentally once more. Attendance at Hogwarts had been made compulsory, something that gave Minerva no end of unease. Should the unthinkable happen and Voldemort attacked the school directly, then all the magical children in Britain would be under her roof and under her care when it occurred. She was going to have to think up some kind of evacuation strategy, but at that precise moment in time she had neither the inclination nor the energy; not when there was so much else to think about.

History of Magic had been made optional for all years, as near as they could get to dropping it from the curriculum completely without actually being seen to do so. It was a clever technique: Minerva had to give them that. She knew that no-one would voluntarily take a subject that she herself admitted to be the most boring known to mankind, and in that way, they could guarantee that it was not taught. The only thing that puzzled her was _why_ they would want to prevent the history being taught. At the very least, Minerva had expected them to change the curriculum to focus on the great triumphs of evil witches and wizards in the past (although thankfully these were few and far between), or maybe some twisted indoctrination that would show how wizards were superior to muggles.

She pushed this thought aside and continued on her mental list. The only other thing that truly worried her was the clause that stated all new teaching staff had to be approved and appraised by the Committee. Minerva had never given any thought to selecting someone as her replacement now that she had ascended to the headship and was doubly burdened, but now she knew that no matter what, she was going to remain as transfiguration teacher and headmistress if it was the last thing she did. She was not hiring any more staff; not when she knew that their replacements would simply quicken the demise of the school. Of course, there was no guarantee that the Ministry would not change their minds about this regulation in a few months time and she would find herself heading a staff of imposters that she had no idea who they were and whose actions she was completely unable to control. This resolve had been already been sorely tested, as Charity Burbage had been threatening to leave the school and go into hiding for the entire summer. Minerva couldn't really blame her, not when she thought of all that Charity had endured during the few school-free months. She sighed, it seemed that hardly a day went by without the young muggle studies professor receiving some sort of threat through the post; it was no wonder that she wanted to disappear, but after the headmistress had given her word that she would be safer at Hogwarts than she would be in hiding, Charity had agreed, however reluctantly, to return. The full quota of staff was returning with no new additions for the first year since Tom Riddle had applied for the Defence Against the Dark Arts job all those years ago, and Minerva felt that this was extremely significant somehow. At first she had thought that it might simply be a positive omen for the year to come – the fact that just maybe, the curse that Voldemort had placed on the position that he had coveted had been broken, and with it the iron grip of terror that he held the country in would also be broken. But thinking it over, Minerva was sure that there was a deeper meaning behind it, a deeper importance that made it so necessary not to allow any strangers into the staffroom this year.

She was pulled from her musing by a soft knock at the door.

"Come in," she sighed, praying that her visitor was not Filch, complaining bitterly about the fact that there were students in the castle before their time, running riot through his nice clean halls. Minerva had not heard a whisper from the three stowaways since their arrival at the school early the previous morning, and she wasn't sure whether she should be worried about this silence or relieved. It had never occurred to Minerva to question why students with no real home to go to were not allowed to remain at the school over the summer holidays, and it was only now that she was trying, without success, to think up a reason. Harry, of course, was a special case, his returning to his however unhappy 'home' was necessary for his protection, but for the other students who would prefer their term time abode to become full time… Minerva wondered as she heard her visitor enter and finally looked up. To her relief, it was Bathsheba who was standing in front of the desk, an expression of sympathy on her face.

"Minerva, you look worn down into the ground," she said. "Do yourself a favour and take the afternoon off."

"I was going to," admitted Minerva. "Well, I was going to go to Diagon Alley to see a man about some Defence Against the Dark Arts books."

Bathsheba cocked her head on one side to question and Minerva passed her the 'Committee-approved' booklist for the next year.

"There's nothing about advanced defence on there, Bathsheba. How are the seventh years ever going to pass their NEWTs without textbooks?"

Bathsheba raised an eyebrow as she looked over the list and set it back on the desk.

"I see that my subject is not deemed important enough to be subject to Ministry control. Thank heavens for small mercies. Besides," she added dryly, "how are the seventh years ever going to pass their NEWTs with Severus teaching them?"

Minerva felt a stab of guilt at this declaration but said nothing.

"You know, I really don't know," said Bathsheba suddenly. "Something's gone wrong somewhere along the line," she continued, and Minerva could see that she had the far away look in her eyes that she always wore when she was enthusing about a particularly good bit of knitting that she was in the middle of.

"Is this to do with Albus's knitting pattern by any chance?" she ventured. Bathsheba nodded.

"It's not unheard of for knitting patterns to contain some kind of spell that is activated as they are knitted and I'm half-certain that this one is no different," the ancient runes professor explained, and for a moment Minerva received a spectacular mental vision of Voldemort clad in a magical pullover of doom and all their problems being solved by a simple cable knit. "It would explain why Albus gave it to me to translate; if he suspected it had a spell within it and he wanted to find out what it was. The only trouble is, I have no idea what the spell is, what it does or even if I'm doing it properly because the language is so obscure and difficult to decipher. Even if I am doing it properly, the spell is redundant because although it is activated during the knitting process, it still requires another incantation to bring it fully into fruition." She sighed. "I'm not making any sense, am I?"

"I can follow," said Minerva quickly, wondering where Bathsheba was going with her speech. She was normally a very logical woman and it was unusual for the elderly witch to babble randomly, however much her name might have given the impression of incoherency.

"Well, that's not really important. Knitting is like life, and as I was puzzling through my pattern and wondering what was hidden beneath the surface…" Here Minerva briefly remembered the words that had flashed red on the page under Bathsheba's fingers when she had first touched the pattern. "… and I couldn't help but start comparing it to life. And inevitably, my thoughts came round to Severus. I think that there is most definitely more than meets the eye about that man. My personal feelings towards him aside, there is definitely something going on that the rest of us don't know about behind those eyes of his."

For a few moments, Minerva considered bringing Bathsheba in on the secret that currently only she, Severus and Poppy shared, but she forcibly dragged herself away from this thought. The fewer people who knew, the better, and who knew whether Bathsheba's knitting pattern might yet provide her with the truth. She brought her mind back to the present and the booklist that sat on her desk, seeming to mock her.

"Diagon Alley," she said wearily before looking up at Bathsheba once more. "Do you want to come? To be honest I'd appreciate the company."

Bathsheba nodded.

"Just let me get my cloak."

She hurried out of the office and Minerva set about making her own preparations for departure. The ancient runes teacher's words had unnerved her though; what possible power could this strange knitted item possess?

A few minutes later they were standing in Diagon Alley, and Minerva was having trouble keeping her jaw from dropping. Admittedly, it was quite a while since she had last been there, acquiring most of her magical purchases in Hogsmeade or through Owl Order catalogues, but still, she had never anticipated that the street should have undergone such a dramatic deterioration in such a comparatively short space of time. The number of shops with boarded up windows and barred doors was greater than those that still remained open for business, and even then, there was none of the joyful display of wares or the inherent happiness and bustle that the alley used to possess. The place was all but deserted, and the worn-down air of a place that had simply given up hung heavily and wearily in the air.

"It's like a ghost town," breathed Bathsheba, and Minerva could tell the genuine sorrow in her voice. The ancient runes teacher had lived a long time, and she had seen the alley blossom and develop over the decades as shops had changed hands, changed names, been handed down from father to son. Now, that glorious past that had marked Diagon Alley as the country's best wizarding commerce centre had been forgotten in their bleak and miserable present.

Just then, something caught Minerva's eye; a movement through the crack in a boarded up window. She looked again and could just make out the unnaturally pale eyes of Mr Ollivander in the dim light of the upstairs window of his shop. Whilst to the rest of the world, the wandmaker was still lost, the Order had reinstalled him in his home once he had been well enough to travel, and he was recuperating there with the minimum of disturbances. For all the twisted intelligence of their master, some of Voldemort's lackeys really were criminally stupid. They would never look for Ollivander in the one place that he was most likely to be because to the outside observer, the shop and the house above it were still abandoned. The eyes moved away from the crack, and Minerva averted her gaze quickly in case one of the slightly less mentally-challenged followers was watching.

"Flourish and Blotts, I suppose," said Bathsheba. "I could do with looking for a new lexicon myself if I'm ever going to get this… whatever it's meant to be, finished before I expire."

Minerva nodded and the two witches made their way quickly down the alley towards the bookshop. They were the only customers, something that unnerved Minerva even more. The start of term was two days away, surely the shop should have been swarming with students picking up last minute supplies, even though Minerva had done something wholly unorthodox and told her pupils in their Hogwarts letters that the school would be providing all their textbooks for that year. Ever since she had first met Severus on the night that Azkaban fell and he had warned her of the Ministry's impending fall, she had been in two minds about doing this, knowing that the school might well be in danger of regulations like the ones that had fallen on her desk that morning, and she was glad that she had. She looked around the shelves for a moment whilst Bathsheba spoke to the cashier about her lexicon.

It was only after she had stared at the shelves for the best part of ten minutes that Minerva realised what was wrong.

"Mr Flourish," she said to the man behind the counter warily, "where are all your books?"

That was perhaps a slight exaggeration; it was not that there were no books on the shelves at all, but they were nowhere near as plentifully stocked as they normally were, great gaps indicating where large volumes had been taken out.

"It was the Ministry, Professor," said Mr Flourish sadly. "They came yesterday and took the entire shop apart, ostensibly checking for unsuitable works. They took eighteen palletsworth. Nearly a thousand galleons of stock gone up in smoke." Mr Flourish didn't sound as if he was particularly worried about the money, rather he was feeling devastated at the loss of the books that he dedicated his professional life to. Minerva swallowed. Any books that they deemed 'unsuitable' were probably the exact same tomes that she was searching for herself.

"The Defence Against the Dark Arts section?" she enquired nervously. Mr Flourish shook his head.

"Gone, Professor McGonagall. All gone. Every last book."

Bathsheba looked at her nervously, and Minerva closed her eyes. Perhaps the creeping infiltration of the dark into the safe haven of Hogwarts was going to happen quicker than she had expected after all.

* * *

**Note2: **The knitting pattern is back, and it's more mysterious than ever! Ah, Voldy in an argyle sweater. Can't you just see it now?


	24. The Pen is Mightier

**Note: **Rejoice, for the double bills have returned! Enjoy the first half of today's offering. And it might be a bit late, but it is STILL MONDAY, therefore I have kept to the Monday updates!

* * *

**Chapter Twenty-Four**

**The Pen is Mightier**

It was a singularly odd feeling, being the only three students in the school, thought Hermione. Of course, she had been in the castle when there had been very few people there – the Christmas of their third year when Sirius was still a dangerous fugitive rang particularly clearly in her mind – but knowing that she wasn't technically meant to be there was something else entirely. She felt both awed and privileged to be in her unique position as she wandered down the corridors that seemed familiar but really weren't. It had taken her six years to get used to the castle's ever-changing layout, and even now there were mysteries deep within its ancient walls that she knew she was destined never to know. Had the times not been so pressing; had the situation not been so gloomy and depressive, Hermione would have taken the opportunity to borrow the Maurauder's Map and go exploring in an effort to satisfy her natural curiosity. Hermione had always been the willing vessel of a vast and unknowable yearning to find out, to learn as much as she could. She had always been encouraged to learn as a child, and it as a process that had never lost its charm, fascination or beauty as she had grown older. People might call her a know-it-all and a swot, but Hermione had, in time, learned to pay them little heed. True, once she had acquired a certain degree of knowledge, the desire to prove herself worthy of receiving more was deliciously addictive, and she knew that it had got her into trouble and would not doubt continue to do so. But she accepted this fact with good grace – after all, no-one was human without their faults – and she continued to immerse herself fully in the gaining of multifarious new knowledge; of learning for the sheer pleasure of discovering and mastering something new.

To this end, Hermione had been headed towards the library, figuring that since the exploration of the castle did not, to her mind, seem to be a particularly useful task, she might as well indulge her natural thirst for reading as well as the unparalleled access to the library resources to further their search for clues about the horcruxes. Harry had explained their status quo to the Order the previous afternoon, and the small resistance had spread out its scanty forces across the country, looking for clues and trying to piece together the exact nature and location of the dread items. The knowledge that they now had allies in their quest had mollified Hermione somewhat. Whilst she would be there for Harry until the bitter end, she had been apprehensive about their undertaking this journey for all the reasons that Professor McGonagall had presented to them over the summer. Hermione feared for her parents, an acute fear that she still could not shake even now. They were not unaware of the situation in the magical world that their daughter inhabited, but Hermione had not been entirely forthcoming as to the extent of the danger she was facing with her return there. She shuddered as she thought of what would happen should Voldemort turn up on her doorstep in the middle of her respectable neighbourhood, demanding to know her whereabouts. For a few panicked days, Hermione had even considered an elaborate and involved plot consisting of modifying her parents memories to exclude her existence and establishing them under new identities in Australia, but she had thankfully come to her senses. The magic involved would be exhausting and complex, and while she was confident of her own magical ability, there was no guarantee that something would not go wrong at the last minute and she would be unable to reverse the process once it was all over. _If it's ever going to be over_, Hermione thought to herself darkly, before pulling herself firmly out of that downward spiral and determining on a more pro-active train of thought. Research. Perhaps the answers lay somewhere within the depths of the library. Perhaps, in the wake of Dumbledore's death, the books that he had taken from the shelves would have since been returned there, and her efforts would bear more fruit. Perhaps she might even brave the wrath of Madame Pince and ask for assistance. After all, it was a matter of life and death, literally.

Hermione's relationship with the Hogwarts librarian had been a definitively strained one. It seemed to her that the hawkish woman was concerned solely for the wellbeing of the tomes in her care, rather than helping the students as was part and parcel of her job. But Hermione had to concede that when push came to shove, they were not all that different. Whilst Madame Pince certainly loved the books in the library, some might say a little too much, it was obvious that she did not admire them simply for the sake of it. She, like Hermione, respected the power that books could bring, and it was this that made her so inordinately protective of them. It was simply a shame that she allowed this protectiveness to rule over her general demeanour, instead of using that passionate love of the written world and trying to instil a similar awe in others. As things stood, her behaviour served the opposite purpose, driving students away from the library where they might otherwise have discovered wondrous things. Perhaps that was the whole point; perhaps Madame Pince did not want to share the knowledge that she had been entrusted with. Hermione shrugged inwardly. The witch's tactics had certainly not put her off, and she was not going to let uneasiness stop her now, not with such an important mission to complete as soon as possible. She made to turn towards the library, but just as she reached the entrance hall, a thunderous knock resounded from the front doors, reverberating all the way through the castle. Hermione ducked out of sight; she had the feeling that no matter who was at the door, she would do better to keep her distance rather than be asked the awkward question of what a student was doing in school before the term had started. Most of the teachers had been informed discreetly of their premature arrival, and indeed most of them stayed squirreled away in their classrooms preparing for the new year, but Hermione still felt nervous should she bump into anyone on her travels.

Professor McGonagall appeared, hurrying down the main staircase. She swept past Hermione into the entrance hall and opened the doors with a flick of her wand. From her vantage point, Hermione couldn't see the visitors, but she could hear them, and as soon as they spoke, her blood ran cold.

"Ah, Headmistress McGonagall. Please excuse us. We're from the Committee for Re-Education and we're here to evaluate your library."

"Evaluate?" Professor McGonagall repeated. "I believe that you'll find Hogwarts library has been in perfect working order ever since its inauguration over a millennium ago. We've certainly never had any complaints and our librarian, Irma Pince, keeps everything in exceedingly thorough order. Good day, gentlemen."

"Professor McGonagall, you don't appear to have understood." The voice that had spoken went from being smooth and slick to cold and authoritative. "We are going to take a look at you library and unfortunately you do not get a choice in the matter." The calm manner returned. "After all, we wouldn't want anything falling into the innocent hands of the students now, would we?"

Professor McGonagall took a step back into Hermione's field of vision, her face set in an expression of utter fury.

"Now, I don't think we'll be needing your assistance with this particular venture. We will need to speak to your librarian, however."

Unseen, Hermione smiled. If they were going to pick a fight with Madame Pince over books, then they weren't going to get very far. The younger witch knew from experience that the librarian became a fierce mother bear whenever her precious haul was threatened.

"This way, gentlemen," the headmistress said through gritted teeth. She led them in the direction of the library and Hermione sat back against her pillar and let out the breath she had been holding in. A sudden thought crossed her mind and she got up, and ran halfway across the entrance hall. If the Ministry were going to be going through the library with a fine tooth comb, then there was always the possibility that the books she needed would soon be out of her reach, if they existed at all. Hermione stopped herself in the middle of the entrance hall; she couldn't very well run into the library on a horcrux-book-rescue mission, could she? Especially not when she had just been hiding from the people who were in the library at that very moment. She turned back towards her hiding place, pausing to consider her next course of action. On the one hand, going to the library to rescue some Defence Against the Dark Arts books that might or might not have been useful to her was akin to suicide. On the other hand, she couldn't just sit back and do nothing whilst these Ministry goons pulled apart her beloved library, turning it into a shell of the grandiose spectacle that it had been before, all the most interesting and useful books replaced with Ministry-approved editions that would, naturally, omit anything that could possibly be used to eliminate their opponent. Even if Hermione had not been so fixated on finding any reclusive works that might prove useful to them and the Order in their quest, she would still be vowing to protect the school's literary heart for the new first-years even if for no-one else. She didn't want them to be deprived of the same wonderous resources that had been available to her during her earlier years. As she had read all that time ago in _Hogwarts: A History_, the school's library was a legacy that had been constantly maturing and expanding for the past thousand years. People could not simply walk in and take bits away from it. It was almost as bad as chopping Rowena Ravenclaw's right arm off. Hermione made her way carefully towards the library, pausing every so often to duck behind a pillar every time that she heard movement in her vicinity. Half a plan was forming itself in her mind. The Ministry representatives who had come to the school, what little she had seen of them, certainly did not look to be the brightest blooms in the bunch. There was always the chance, albeit a slim one, that she could perhaps summon the books she needed without their noticing, and no-one would be any the wiser.

She was almost there when Peeves came whizzing down the corridor towards her. Hermione groaned; Peeves was the last person she wasnted to meet whilst she was trying to be surreptitious. She stepped into the shadow of a suit of armour, hoping that it would provide sufficient cover from the anarchic poltergeist. Thankfully, Peeves seemed to be wholly focussed on a different goal. He hurtled down the corridor, turning somersaults as he went and cackling with unadulterated glee.

"Chaos!" Hermione heard him say as he passed her hidey-hole. "Chaos!"

She didn't, at that moment, know whether the chaos to which he was referring was a chaos that he had just created or was just about to create; she suspected the latter from his malevolent expression but when she stepped back into the corridor and remembered the direction from which he had come, she realised his meaning with a feeling of ice-like dread. He had come out of the library, and the sounds coming from within the room were in no way ones that Hermione wanted to hear anywhere near it. The thudding of heavy tomes hitting the floor, the muttering of repeated spells and the rush of magic that accompanied their effects, but above all, a mournful howl of pure and tragic anguish. Presently another sound pierced through the rest, that of cruel laughter. She picked up her pace towards the source of the sound, pausing at the open library door to peer through the crack that formed between the door and the frame. She could not make out much, but what she could see did nothing to quell her worries. There was a pile of books in the main space in front of the issue desk, their covers torn and ripped, pages bent were they had been pulled roughly out of shelves and simply thrown pell mell onto the pile with no thought for their care or their owners. She shifted slightly and she could make out the form of one of the Ministry men picking books off the pile at random, tossing them across the room to an unseen recipient. She moved slightly again, casting a spell under her breath to widen her field of vision without widening the gap in the door. She found the recipient easily, lazily shooting flames from his wand as the books came towards him and laughing as they went up in smoke. He was using the venerable volumes as target practice; his colleague congratulating him on particularly tricky shots. Hermione shook her head, feeling the bile of anger rising in her throat. So much wanton destruction in such a short space of time; it was truly reflective of the way that Voldemort wanted to take over the world that they held so dear. That which he could not control, he would simply destroy. He had no control over books that had already been long-written and published before his birth, so he would rid his world of them instead. Suddenly, the rising anger reared into her head and it was all that Hermione could do to remain still where she was and try to think with a calm head. She had once read a theory somewhere, possibly by a German anthropologist, that the sharing of knowledge was what made humans human, the one thing that caused the separation between their modes of communication and those of animals. The opposite of this process, however, the deliberate withholding of knowledge from others by dint of its destruction… What did that make the people who were performing this atrocity, because it certainly did not make them human? Even animals did not destroy knowledge so that no-one could use it; they merely kept the things they learned to themselves. The men that Hermione was watching were worse than animals, and they were making her blood boil.

It was only when one of them spoke that she managed to come sharply back to her senses, for she had been one man short. Three people had come into the building but she had only accounted for two in the library.

"Oh shut her up," the one throwing the books moaned as the howl that Hermione had heard earlier renewed itself and was quickly stifled. She widened the spell's field of vision imperceptibly, finally finding the third Ministry man standing by the issue desk, restraining a rather dishevelled looking Madame Pince. From her rumpled appearance and the tears streaming down her face, it was obvious to Hermione that she had long since given up what seemed to have been a spirited fight, and now she was simply mourning the loss of her books; the tomes that she had guarded with her life and been so protective of during her tenure as librarian.

"I'm bored with this," groaned the man who was holding her, one strong hand clamped over her mouth to muffle her mournful sobs. "Let's just finish the job and get out of here."

The others pointed their wands at the books and they burst momentarily into flame before vanishing, leaving no trace of the inflagration that had just occurred. Hermione shrank back behind the door as they left, congratulating each other on a job well done. She narrowed her eyes as they passed her, suddenly overcome with a childish desire for revenge, but knowing that she could not do anything too outrageous lest she betray her position. She racked her brains for the perfect curse, casting just as they reached the end of the corridor and were about to disappear out of her eyeline. She ducked inside the library, listening with a grim smile as they yelped their way into the entrance hall.

"I told you some of those books were cursed," yelled one to the others. "Now look what you've done!"

Hermione's momentary good humour did not last long, however, because the evidence of the destruction of the library was now there in front of her eyes with no door in the way to limit her field of vision. Not only could she see the gaping holes in the bookshelves where various tomes should have been nestled, she could see the librarian, slumped on the floor where her captors had let her go and she had not had the will to stand again, her face buried in her hands. Cautiously, Hermione approached the distraught witch. Her previous feelings towards the librarian aside, after such wanton destruction had been wreaked upon her domain and she had been powerless to stop it, somehow, Hermione felt sympathy. Who could not feel some sort of empathy with the sheer and utter despair that she was now looking at; the picture of a life ripped to pieces? When one lived for one's books and those alone…

"Madame Pince?" Hermione asked cautiously, but the older woman did not appear to have heard her. "Madame Pince…" She broke off; it would have been completely ridiculous to ask 'are you alright?' since she quite clearly wasn't. "Is there anything I can do for you?" she finished finally.

The librarian shook her head.

"They're gone…" she murmured through her fingers. "Some of those were first editions, out of print, never to be seen again. Gone, gone, gone…"

Possibly against her better judgement, Hermione knelt slowly on the floor beside the weeping witch.

"There must be other books, elsewhere," she said, "Books turn up in all sorts of places and you can bet that the Ministry won't think to look in them. We can get some books back."

She wondered what she was saying, since she had no idea whether it was true or not . It was simply a feeling, but it seemed to have the desired effect.

"Hermione! Hermione!"

Ron and Harry skidded into the library.

"We heard the Ministry blokes come in and we wondered where you were and…" Ron trailed off. "Bloody Hell, where's the library gone?"

This sent Madame Pince into fresh floods ruining Hermione's hard work. She put an arm round the older woman's shoulders, trying to comfort her as best she could, but she knew that she was not really the best person to try, and she looked up at the boys with annoyance.

"Well, don't just stand there looking like lemons!" she snapped. "Get Madame Pomfrey!"

Ron and Harry, looking rather uncomfortable with the drama unfolding in front of them, seemed relieved to be given an excuse to leave the scene of such anguish and took off at a run once more. Hermione rolled her eyes, typical men. She stayed kneeling on the floor beside Madame Pince until the nurse came bustling in to take care of her. It was a strange sort of five minutes, but one thing was certain.

It was the beginning of a new and wholly unanticipated camaraderie between Hermione and the Hogwarts librarian.

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**Note2: **Typical men, jitter at the sight of crying women. I can't remember at the moment who had the theory about sharing knowledge making us human, but I'll find out for next time. Now, onwards to the next part!


	25. Battle Plan

**Note: **Part two of today's update. Enjoy!

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**Chapter Twenty-Five**

**Battle Plan**

Minerva looked around the gathered occupants of the staffroom. Now that the beginning of term was but the next day, the majority of her colleagues had returned to the castle in order to make the necessary preparations for the new school year, and would have received her memo, but a few were yet to arrive back to live on a permanent basis and would move back in on the following morning. Minerva only hoped that her emergency owls would have found their intended recipients in time to inform them of her spontaneous staff meeting, the first meeting that she had called within her tenure as headmistress. Really, the problems that were to be discussed at the gathering should have been thought through long before the previous term ended, but everyone had been so shocked at the turn of events, everyone had been so unable to function on more than a basic level, that she had left it. It had also felt strange, inappropriate, taking Albus's place so soon after his death. Having given people time to get over their grief and disbelief, she hoped that any theories and solutions that were put forward today would be better than anything that could have been thought up before.

Cuthbert Binns was there, as usual, indeed the only time he ever left the staffroom was to teach; it made sense that he should be present for the meeting. Bathsheba was there with her runic knitting pattern, several balls of wool of beautiful varied colours in a basket by her feet. Minerva still had no idea what she was making, it appeared to be a scarf of some sort, in a complicated style of woven knots and holes and lacy bits. At that precise moment in time, the needles were hovering in midair in front of the owner as she pored over the pattern, completely oblivious to the world around her as she tried to decipher the ancient language that had been hidden from human eyes for so long. Presently she picked a ball out of the basket and looked at it for a long time, twisting the end of the yarn between her fingers as if that would somehow aid her decision. It was a dark Lincoln green colour, interwoven with flecks of black and gold. Personally, Minerva thought that it would not be a good idea to introduce yet another colour to the already garish display, but she knew better than to say anything. They had already established that this was no ordinary pattern, and Minerva was as intrigued to see it evolve as she was determined to find out its secrets. Finally, Bathsheba took a deep breath, as if she had come to a conclusion that was not particularly favourable but that was necessary none the less, and she began to wind the green speckled yarn around one of the needles. Minerva tore her attention away and continued to appraise the occupants of the staffroom.

Aurora Sinistra was also there, nodding off in her favourite chair. Minerva could not help but smile wryly at the thought of what would occur once Horace arrived, for it was also his favourite chair. Thankfully, in their past year of teaching together, any disputes over ownership of the sagging green velvet monstrosity had been avoided thanks to Horace's preference to keep himself to himself in his quarters and the very nature of Aurora's craft meaning she was never in the staffroom during its most active hours to begin with.

"Aurora," Minerva began gently. The astronomy teacher, who was usually so brilliant and full of life, merely groaned and pulled her hat down over her eyes. As bubbling and bouncy as she might be during the night and evening, trying to keep Aurora's attention during the day, when she wanted her bed and the sunlight that she so seldom saw was making her irritable, was a completely thankless task. Having spent so long teaching during the hours of darkness, the younger witch had become almost completely nocturnal, even during the holiday periods. Pomona Sprout failed to suppress a laugh, but Minerva could not let go of a small worry in the back of her mind. Aurora had been shaken by the dramatic climax to the last year more than most; and Minerva could fully understand why. She would feel the same if the grand denouement had unfolded in her own Transfiguration classroom. On the morning of Albus's funeral, a tearful and sleep-deprived Aurora had confided in the acting headmistress; saying that she had not had the courage to go into her beloved tower since the tragedy had occurred. Of all the nights for her to be away from the castle, of all the nights for her not to have been protecting her little patch of Hogwarts… She felt as if her home, her entire world, had been brutally violated, mauled by the events that had occurred there. They had gone to the top of the tallest tower together, viewed it in the sunlight, and stargazer had broken down into tears. Minerva wondered whether she had regained any of her spark, or whether the new first-years would never know the bright and mischievous woman who had loved her craft and her tower almost more than life itself.

Minerva had been so caught up in her thoughts of Aurora that she hadn't noticed the formerly empty room beginning to fill up with her fellow staff, and she came back into the realm just Horace arrived and took a few steps back on finding his chair already occupied. He visibly toyed with the idea of getting Aurora to move before resigning himself to a much more uncomfortable seat next to Pomona. Minerva performed a quick mental headcount; they were two short.

Finally Septima Vector hurried in through the door looking extremely breathless and flustered, and Minerva breathed a sigh of relief. She could begin the proceedings, knowing that their final absentee would remain so. Severus, as much as Minerva had wanted his valuable input on how the school should be run and should be protected in the wake of everything that had occurred over this wholly tumultuous summer, had decided that whilst his returning to Hogwarts was unavoidable, he would avoid it for as long as physically possible, and Minerva could not begrudge him that. The atmosphere in the staffroom would have been so tense as to be cut with a knife, and Minerva knew that however much her colleague was undeserving of the ire of the rest of the staff, there was simply no way in which to tell them so. They had already decided that it would be more comfortable for all parties for Severus to remain as out of sight, and hopefully out of mind, as possible during this next year. It would be a sad loss to dinner table conversation, thought Minerva wistfully. Not her own, but those she overheard. For all her previous misgivings and personal vendettas against the defence teacher, he was an intelligent and eloquent man who could put forward theories on all manner of subjects.

"We're all here," Minerva announced, wholly unnecessarily since it was clear to all the gathered staff that their numbers were complete. "So let's begin."

"Should someone prod Aurora?" asked Filius plainly, indicating the astronomer, who had not moved for the past ten minutes. Bathsheba held up one of her knitting needles and advanced towards the younger witch, but thankfully she did not put the pointed metal to use against her colleague.

"Rora, wake up lass," she said.

"Gerroff," murmured Aurora's hat. "Mwakeshebanoneedle."

Filius raised an eyebrow and finally Aurora emerged from her cocoon, surveying the staffroom blearily.

"Well, we might as well get cracking," she said with a yawn. "I'll start. Everything's gone to pot, we have to welcome a turncoat back into our midst and you-know-damn-well-who is determined to rot our noble and venerated establishment from the inside out."

The room fell into silence in the wake of Aurora's uncharacteristic outburst, the tone of her last words edging closer and closer towards hysteria.

"Well, I think that just about sums it up," said Filius dryly. He sighed, and all traces of humour faded from his face as he spoke again. "Face it Minerva, we're going to be fighting a losing battle for however long the bastard wants us to play along in his perverse little game, giving everyone a false hope whilst he prepares to bring us down in the worst way possible. If the decision to remain open had not already been made for us, I would seriously consider closing the school completely in the wake of Albus's death."

"Filius!" Septima's voice was shocked. "How can you think of such a thing? How many more will suffer without the protections that Hogwarts affords to them?"

"The castle did a very good job of protecting Albus," muttered Filius darkly. Beside him, Pomona nodded her agreement sagely.

"I am inclined to agree with Septima," wheezed Binns. "The castle itself offers a certain amount of security of its own accord. We all know that the mysteries concerning the sentience of old buildings are more than merely conjecture, and I have been within this building for a very long time."

"But when this security can be breached by a sixteen-year-old wizard with no knowledge of the castle's inherent magic – admit it Cuthbert, no-one listens in your lectures on the history of the castle, just as no-one has read _Hogwarts: A History_…"

"I have," interjected the librarian absently. "It wasn't all that bad considering its reputation."

"Fine, no-one except Irma has read _Hogwarts: A History_; I still don't see how, after everything that's happened, we can still call the school a safe place."

Minerva looked nervously at Poppy, who raised an eyebrow at her with a minute shrug. It was her decision, Minerva knew that the mediwitch could not make it for her. As easy as it would have been to explain everything to the staff; to order Albus's portrait down to the staffroom to give his account of events, she knew that she couldn't do so. The more people who knew of Severus's true allegiance and what had really occurred on the astronomy tower that fateful day, the more danger there was that this allegiance would be revealed to his paymaster, and then all would be lost. She would simply have to go along with her colleagues' impressions of the man, hoping that the fact that she and Poppy knew the truth would be enough to lessen the effects of the hostility. She drew herself out of her thoughts and back into the staffroom conversation, the raised voices of which telling her that it had unfortunately degenerated into a full-scale argument.

"QUIET!" yelled a voice from one corner. Bathsheba was regarding them all frostily over the top of her spectacles. "Can't you see that this is exactly the sort of thing that he's waiting for? You're lucky that Snape isn't here to report this little indiscretion back to the powers that be. When we turn on each other like this then yes, the school is in peril. When we present a united front against the forces that are baying at the door, however, we can hold them off. The castle is and always has been formidable, that cannot be denied, but its efficacy depends upon the people inside it. It can do much by itself, but not everything. Besides, if you get any louder I'll lose concentration and start dropping stitches, so we know how dire the situation was becoming."

A small laugh ran around the staffroom, diffusing the tension that had gathered there. It was well-known amongst the teachers that Bathsheba could knit through virtually any distraction without losing her way. The ancient runes teacher met Minerva's eyes as she returned to her needles, the older witch giving her a look that seemed to hand the authority and chairmanship of the meeting back to its rightful holder with a heavy thud. It was a mark of the difficult burden that Minerva was carrying at that moment that she should have lost control of the meeting when she was usually such a stern presence in any discussion. She sighed and finally began to speak for the first time since the meeting had got underway.

"Severus isn't stupid," she said. "He knows that he is returning to a hostile environment and I doubt that he will do anything to aggravate an already delicate situation; he does have a highly developed sense of self-preservation. No, I think Severus's presence here in the castle this coming year is not something that we should be worrying about unduly just yet. I think we need to place our priorities elsewhere, and be more prepared for unexpected visits from the Ministry, checking that we are following their damnfool regulations. As you no doubt know, yesterday we had a coming together with the Committee regarding the library." (Here Irma sniffed emphatically.) "I therefore suggest that whilst it will be necessary to follow the rules outwardly, we use any opportunities for insubordination as and when they arise."

"Like when Umbridge was here?" asked Aurora, her demeanour suddenly brightening.

"Yes, like when Umbridge was here," Minerva continued. "But be sensible. We don't want to cause anarchy, which was our aim last time. Before, we wanted to show that Hogwarts couldn't function without Albus. Now, we want to prove that it can. We want to show the world that Hogwarts will stay strong, no matter how they try to break us down!"

The force of her pseudo-patriotic speech surprised Minerva, and she was even more surprised when her staff began to applaud her words.

"I approve wholeheartedly Minerva," said Horace. "It sounds like an excellent plan, but one question does still remain. What of Defence Against the Dark Arts? I think it is very obvious that there will be no instruction in this in the curriculum, and even if we organise something outside of the school timetable, on the sly so to speak, I don't know which of us would be qualified enough to teach it."

"We could always put in a joint effort," suggested Filius. "Everyone can teach what they know."

"That's alright for you, British Duelling Champion 1969," said Pomona, "but some of us only scraped a DADA Owl."

"Some of us messed it up entirely," murmured Septima to no-one in particular. "I always work on the principle that I can confuse an opponent to death with numbers if all else fails."

Minerva smiled.

"I was actually working on the principle that the students themselves would take over that role. If we remember Umbridge's half-hearted reign of terror once more, they rose admirably to the occasion then. I have no doubt that the similarity of the circumstances will cause them to do so once more. And we can always drop a few hints if they show no signs of rallying to the cause. Naturally, some outside instruction might be warranted from time to time," she added, nodding to Filius. "We shall have to see what happens."

There was silence for a while as each went over the plan mentally before the meeting came to an end by mutual agreement and the gathered teachers and support staff left the room to prepare for the next day. Poppy lingered behind.

"Do you think that it'll work?" she asked. "Moreover, do you think that we can prevent the hot-tempered amongst us from lashing out at our absent colleague in a moment of provocation?"

"I believe that Severus is planning to keep his appearances outside of his classroom to an absolute minimum," said Minerva. "He will be going out of his way to remain as invisible as possible, although indeed, this behaviour might be even more suspicious." She sighed. "We shall simply have to risk it, Poppy. Sometimes you have to risk a lot to win a lot. Perhaps we shall have to bring others in on the secret gradually. I think Bathsheba already suspects that something is amiss about the whole situation."

The nurse nodded and left the room. Minerva also rose, ready to vanish away to the bridge to tell Severus what had occurred at the brief meeting. She was, on the whole, feeling slightly more confident about the coming months. They had a battle plan at last.

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**Note2: **Hope you enjoyed, and I'll see you next week with at least one chapter, hopefully two!


	26. A Reluctant Crusader

**Note: **We're going for a quick sojourn with the Death Eaters again! Enjoy.

**Note2: **In which we learn a little more about a character who was mentioned a few times in the canon, but whom we really know nothing about. Don't you just love artistic licence?

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**Chapter Twenty-Six**

**A Reluctant Crusader**

Thorfinn Rowle, known as Finn to everyone except his maternal grandmother, who had always insisted on calling everyone by their proper given name, could honestly say that he had never actually intended to become a Death Eater, and that he was one of very few. Oh, there were many who joined without knowing what they were letting themselves in for, but Finn was not one of those. He had known exactly what he was letting himself in for, he just hadn't wanted to let himself in for it. Aside from Draco he was the youngest of their corps, completely out of his depth, and Finn could say that he blamed his father entirely for the whole rotten mess he had got his only son into.

Albert Rowle had been a loyal follower, one of the most loyal until the end of the war came and the trials began. It was then that he had decided to quietly slink away from the scene of so many crimes, and leaving his past behind him, he had uprooted his family and left the country entirely. Finn had only been six at the time; it registered on neither a mental nor an emotional level beyond the fact that suddenly, everyone outside the house spoke a different language, a language that he soon picked up himself. He remembered very little of life in England; Germany had been his home for as long as he could really fathom. He had grown up there, been to school there, met the girl who would become his wife there.

If Albert had not been so fond of alcohol and tobacco, Finn might have been able to stay in Kiel with Mareike and forget that England was about to enter into a magical war and that his father's old leader had returned. As it was, Albert was extremely fond of alcohol and tobacco, and the said liquor and snuff had had an extremely detrimental effect on his health. So when the Dark Lord returned, Albert was in no position to continue to serve him.

Desperate to appease the Dark Lord now that he had rendered himself useless through overindulgence, Albert had made an agreement. That agreement had come in the form of Finn. Albert's son would continue in his father's stead. Albert did not ask Finn's opinion of this deal, and Finn had indeed been quite surprised to find this terrifying man standing by his father's sickbed, calmly holding out a wand and asking for his left arm. From the look in his father's eyes, Finn had known that protesting would not be an option, but he had tried anyway.

The Dark Lord had merely turned his head on one side and peered around the half-open door behind him.

"Your wife is exceptionally beautiful, Rowle," he had said, conversationally, as if he was stating the weather. "And very young. How old is she, precisely?"

Finn had wished that Mareike had gone downstairs instead of waiting for him outside the door. She couldn't speak a word of English and had no idea what was being said, but he knew that she knew it was not pleasant.

"Twenty," he replied levelly, and he knew what the Dark Lord was going to say.

"Such a short life… It would be a shame indeed to see it wasted."

From then on, Finn knew that he had no choice, and so two years ago they had returned to England, where his father's old friend Camilla had taken them in and given them a roof over their heads. Finn would never let it be said that he had not tried to dissuade Mareike from returning with him, but she had stubbornly refused to stay with her parents and sister in the North.

"What if he comes for me in Germany?" she'd said. "What if he finds me with my family? I won't be responsible for getting them blasted to high heaven." Finn had smiled faintly and their joint fate was sealed. He had always loved Mareike's bluntness. She was most certainly one who liked to call a spade a spade, or in her case, call a spade a _Spaten_. It was a shame that she had retreated into her shell so much since coming to this (for her) foreign land. Although she had learned the language in first a pattering pidgin, then a more fluent form, she was still most comfortable staying at home with Camilla, who could speak her native tongue. Finn was perfectly happy with that status quo. At least in the house she was somewhat well-protected.

But now… Now the status quo had changed, irrevocably, and Finn was petrified. They were taking a step into a complete unknown, and that was why he was currently seeking out the advice of someone who'd been in his situation and survived it. Finn found Lucius in the drawing room, staring despondently into an empty fireplace. It looked wholly wrong without the blazing flames.

"I'm sorely tempted, despite it still technically being August," the older man muttered as Finn entered his line of sight. "You'd think it was the middle of winter, so bleak and grey." When Finn made no reply, he looked up and cocked his head on one side to question. "Something wrong Finn? Apart from the obvious," he added bitterly, gesturing vaguely around the room to indicate the idea of 'life in general'. Finn opened his mouth to speak, suddenly thought better of it, and, having confused himself completely, sat down heavily opposite Lucius, taking a moment to collect the thoughts that had not been completely together for the past month.

"I need your help, Lucius," he said eventually. "I… We're…" He took a deep breath, but instead of it giving him more courage, he simply sagged again and rested his head in his hands as he finally brought himself to speak the fated words. "Mareike's pregnant."

There was silence for a long time. When Finn finally looked up, he found Lucius smirking at him with a slightly raised eyebrow.

"Nervous about fatherhood?" he asked.

'Nervous' was possibly the understatement of the century, and Finn wasted no time in telling Lucius so.

"Nervous? Nervous! I'm terrified!"

"You'll get used to the idea soon enough," assured Lucius, but there was a shade of melancholy in his eyes that he could not quite hide.

"It's not that…" Finn sighed, trying to put his jumbled emotions into words. "I've always wanted a proper family with Mari. It's just… We're in the middle of a war, for crying out loud. This is hardly the time to bring a child into the world. It's unfair. I'm already scared for Mari as it is."

Lucius nodded his understanding. The circumstances of the younger man's recruitment were hardly a secret amongst the corps.

"So I came to you," Finn finally continued. "Because Draco was born at the height of the first war and I thought that there may be a vague chance that you know how I feel, and could give me some advice on how to survive the coming year without succumbing to an early coronary."

Silence reigned once more, but Finn found that it was not uncomfortable. At length his comrade spoke again, but this time there was no trace of humour in his voice.

"I wish I could help you Finn, I honestly do. But I can't give you any advice because I don't know how I survived myself. It was easier back then of course. I was still in favour; I had no fear of the Dark Lord. I had joined willingly and I stayed willingly. You did not and do not, which makes you so much more vulnerable. But, even then, there was always the fear that I might go out one night and not come home." He paused, still staring at the fireplace, but Finn knew that his eyes did not see it. Lucius was miles away, drowning in memories. Finn often had to remind himself just how much younger than the rest of his compatriots he was; he had grown up so much in the past two years that he felt at least twice his twenty-three years. He remembered nothing of the first war, at least not enough to make an important impression, and he could scarcely fathom what the other men and their families were going through, experiencing the fear for a second time over, sometimes triple-distilled what it had been before. So lost was he in his recollections that he did not notice that Lucius had continued to speak.

"At least I know what Cam's so scared about now," he was saying, his gaze still absent, and Finn wasn't quite sure if the older man was talking to him or not. Finally he seemed to remember that Finn was there in the room with him, and addressed him directly. "It's a blessing, Finn, honestly. It makes you fight harder, makes you that bit more determined to make it home in one piece."

Finn nodded. It was often said that when women became mothers, a fighter's instinct kicked in, a desperate and primal need to protect their offspring, but Finn thought that the same could be said of new fathers as well, especially when the fathers in question were frontline warriors like himself.

"It gives you something worth fighting for," he murmured, and a ghost of a smile flickered across Lucius's face.

"Exactly," he said, then he heaved himself out of the security of the wingback chair in which he had been sitting and meandered over to the heavy cabinet in the corner, his moment of brooding seemingly passed. "Now, I think a drink to celebrate the good news is in order. If the current climate is anything to go by, we'll have very little to celebrate for the foreseeable future so we need to grab the opportunities with both hands as they arise." He browsed the bottles on the shelves. "What will you have? Firewhiskey, vodka; there's a bottle of absinthe from I-don't-know-who somewhere in here… I'm afraid the brandy's all gone… Walden's one-hundred per cent genuine moonshine… What on Earth is this?"

He pulled a large dark bottle out of the very back of the cabinet and blew dust off the label.

"Ah, Madeira. I don't know what it's doing tucked away at the back there; it's really an excellent year."

At this point, Finn, who had been doing a very good job of keeping a straight face during Lucius's alcoholic monologue, could not help but burst out laughing. Lucius looked at him, bottle still in hand, and raised an eyebrow.

"Is there something wrong with my Madeira?" he asked. Finn shook his head and finally composed himself enough to speak.

"No, I'm sure it's wonderful. It just reminds me of something my father used to 'sing' when he'd had a few. _Have some Madeira m'dear, it's really much nicer than beer. I don't care for sherry, one cannot drink stout, and port is a wine I can well do without_…"

Lucius snorted and twisted the corkscrew into the wax seal of the bottle. Finn watched, not really paying attention, until a third voice made him jump.

"You know Lucius, I find it extremely interesting that whilst according to Narcissa, you have trouble putting in cufflinks without the aid of magic, you are perfectly capable of using a corkscrew."

Walden Macnair came into the room and sat down in a vacant place with a very telling yawn.

"Ah well," said Lucius. "If I wasn't a soak before the war then I definitely will be afterwards." He poured three glasses of the ruby liquid and Walden hovered them across to the chairs.

"To Finn and Mareike and their something worth fighting for," said Lucius, raising his glass. "Glad tidings in an accursed hour."

"Finn and Mareike," Walden echoed, although from his voice it was clear that he didn't care what they toasted as long as there was alcohol at the end of it. Finn managed wan smile and the quiet returned as they drank. By the fourth refill, the youngest member of the group had started singing again. As he got to the line "_and he said as he secretly carved one more notch in the butt of his gold-handled cane_", Walden gave Lucius a pointed look and raised his eyebrows suggestively, and Finn near-collapsed with laughter once more.

"Oh shut up both of you," muttered their host, draining his glass, going to pour himself a fifth and taking several seconds to realise that the bottle was empty.

"I never said a word!" Walden protested.

"You were thinking it," said Lucius darkly. "Besides, it was silver, not gold."

"Colour makes all the difference, of course," said Finn. He looked into the depths of his empty glass, wondering how they had managed to degenerate into such base hilarity in such a short space of time, and in such bleak circumstances as theirs. Perhaps it was true what Lucius had said: every good thing should be celebrated, if only to stop them from wallowing in their self-pity.

"I knew we'd find you in here drinking yourselves into incoherency."

Finn looked up to see Narcissa and Mareike standing in the doorway, arms folded, with a red-haired woman whom he assumed to be Walden's wife.

"Your better halves were worried about you, gentlemen," Narcissa continued. "Naturally, this was the first place in which we looked."

"Of course," said Walden. He picked up the empty bottle and waved it at the women. "Have some Madeira, m'dear?"

"Not if Finn's choice of musical entertainment is anything to go by," his wife replied drily, the effect heightened by the accent of a woman who had lived all her days in the heart of Scotland. "Come on Wally, it's getting on for one in the morning, let's go home for pity's sake." She sighed and turned to Narcissa. "It's definitely bad when you have to take your husband home to bed," she said, but despite the heavy irony in her voice, Finn could detect a note of despair. He wondered how many times Lucius and Walden had holed themselves up in the Manor drawing room, slowly getting drunker and drunker in their desire to escape the ever more oppressive zeitgeist, and he wondered how many times in the future he would be joining them.

"You too, _mein besoffener Schatz_,." Mareike gave a weary pseudo-smile and Finn started coming back to his senses fully. He nodded and made his way across the room to her, aware of the slight wobble in his gait. Finally succeeding in eliciting genuine mirth from his permanently worried wife, Finn allowed himself to relax slightly and concentrate on ignoring the pounding that had begun behind his left temple as they disapparated back home.

"_Und_?" Mareike asked once they were safely ensconced within the darkened house and Camilla was making some very strong coffee, having taken one look at Finn and gone off muttering something about 'Lucius… Walden… drinking sessions… bad influence.'

Finn thought about the evening that he had just experienced, and about the advice that had been imparted. He thought about how glad he was to have a roof over his head and an understanding woman by his side, and he nodded.

"Everything will be fine," he assured her, but even through the haze of drunkenness, Finn could not help but pray that his words would ring true.

* * *

**Note2: **The song 'Have Some Madeira, M'Dear' was made famous by the British duo Flanders and Swann, and can be found here: www . youtube . com / watch ? v=OW _ zi8n4HDQ

Just take out the spaces. As soon as I heard the line about the cane, the brain cells started ticking. It was too good an opportunity to miss.

**Note3: **Ahem. Yes. This chapter did have a point to get across, but I love drunk Death Eaters and it might have got a bit lost… Never mind, I hope you enjoyed the tipsiness if nothing else. And for those of you wishing to learn a little German, 'mein besoffener Schatz' means 'my drunken darling'.


	27. The Beginning of the End

**Note: **For those of you who have read my Worst Witch trilogy, 'The Devil in the Details', you can start looking for the sly (and not quite so sly) little references to it… now. I couldn't resist!

* * *

**Chapter Twenty-Seven**

**The Beginning of the End**

Harry, Hermione and Ron sat nervously at the Gryffindor table, about halfway along the wooden bench. They were alone in the Great Hall, waiting for the others to arrive from the train and for the teachers to take their places at the top table. Harry had been stewing about this moment all day, and unable to wait in quiet suspense in Gryffindor tower any longer, all three had dressed in their robes and come down to the hall to wait instead, feeling that they might be slightly more prepared for anything that might occur should the worst come to the worst. Harry looked down at the empty plates and platters that surrounded them, thinking of the elves down in the kitchen and wondering what Dobby and Kreacher were getting up to, and whether Dobby had keeled over from the amount of woolly hats that he had collected and insisted upon wearing all at once. There was always the possibility that the weight of the knitwear would have an adverse effect upon his brain, but having seen the sheer joy that the headgear brought his diminutive friend, Harry had never had the heart to warn Dobby against wearing all his clothes at once.

Presently there was a cool rush of air next to them and Nearly Headless Nick sat down at the table, looking melancholy.

"What's up Nick?" asked Ron, startled by the ghost's forlorn appearance.

"What isn't up would be a shorter list," sighed Nick. "There are rumours flying around amongst my fellow spirits that the Ministry plans to have us expelled from the castle. Naturally, Peeves is causing even more havoc than usual in his indignation, and this is causing Mr Filch so much aggravation that I fear his efforts will merely speed up the process." He sighed. "Professor Binns is most upset about the whole business. He says that the stories of the dead simply should not be taught by the living. It defeats the object."

Harry did not say that he thought that History of Magic would be a lot more instructive and interesting if it was taught by a living person; no doubt such a phrase would do nothing to help lift Nick's spirits.

"I guess I must leave you know," said Nick. "We've called an emergency meeting in the anteroom to discuss the dire situation, although it is merely a ruse to ensure that the Friar does not fall asleep again and miss the customary greeting of the first-years."

Harry smiled wanly, remembering the first appearance of the ghosts through the wall when he had first joined the school. He hadn't realised that it was a contrived appearance that was a spectral tradition. Nick floated through the wall and the three were left alone once more, occasionally making small talk but no-one really in the mood for chatting as they awaited the arrival of the others.

"What's it going to be like, this year?" asked Ron eventually, giving voice to the question that they had all been assiduously trying to avoid for the past few days. Harry wished he could give his friend a reply, but he was unable to. He had no idea what was going to happen any more than anyone else did.

"I expect, for the most part, that it will be much the same as any other year except the Ministry changes," said Hermione. "After all, Professor McGonagall is at the helm, and she won't let anything too untoward happen."

Harry only hoped that Hermione's theories would prove correct. On learning that Snape was returning to Hogwarts, as the deputy no less, he had very nearly reneged on his promise to McGonagall and left the school there and then, but his friends had managed to get him down from his state of incoherent anger with a well-timed smack to the back of the head.

"Hello," said a voice from the top table. "You're here early. The food's not going to arrive any quicker, you know."

Harry looked up to see the ancient runes professor settling herself at the top table with her knitting. Ancient really was the right word to use to describe Professor Babbling. She was easily the oldest member of staff, but there was something in her eyes that spoke of a merry youth not yet forgotten. Considering her advanced years, Harry had always got the impression from Hermione that she was still in full possession of all her marbles and was remarkably quick with put downs when the situation called for them. He stared in puzzlement at the garment that she was knitting, so long that it trailed on the floor from her lap. She bent her head over the needles sorting out a knot in the fine gold thread that ran all the way through the piece.

"What _is_ that?" Hermione asked, taking the words out of Harry's mouth.

"I have absolutely no idea," replied the professor cheerfully. "I expect I'll find out when I get to the end of the pattern." She sighed. "I've been knitting constantly for the past month and a half and I'm still nowhere near the middle. This thing goes on for miles, and it's only one sheet of parchment!"

"Morning all," groaned Professor Sinistra as she came into the room with a yawn and sat down next to Professor Babbling. "Oh blimey, they're here already," she started on seeing the trio seated at the Gryffindor table. Immediately her poise straightened and she tried to shake herself awake into a more composed appearance. Harry realised that the feast would in fact be breakfast for the nocturnal professor, and he wondered at her topsy-turvy lifestyle.

Although the two teachers paid them little attention, Harry somehow felt it inappropriate to talk any more now that they had witnesses to their hushed conversation. Ron and Hermione evidently felt the same, and they all sat silently watching as the other teachers filed in to take up the places. Pretty soon the top table was creating far more noise than they could have done if they'd tried, and Harry had just opened his mouth to pass comment on Professor Trelawney's latest attempt at channelling the mysticism of the cosmos into her everyday attire when a shout from the other end of the hall stopped him in his tracks.

"HARRY! RON! HERMIONE!"

It was Neville, running down the hall towards them with a grin as wide as the Cheshire Cat's on his face. Ginny and Luna were following hot on his heels, with Dean and Seamus a little way behind them. Suddenly, Harry felt absolutely no regrets at coming back to Hogwarts for his final year; the surge of happiness he felt on seeing his friends again, all safe and sound, was an incomparable feeling.

"Now now," said Professor Flitwick irritably as he struggled to carry in the sorting hat on its stool, the entire ensemble taller than he was. "This is a school, not a circus. I know you haven't seen each other all summer but there's no need to be quite so dramatic."

"You're alright!" exclaimed Neville, ignoring the tiny charms teacher as the newcomers reached the trio at the end of the table and they threw all propriety out of the window, all hugging each other tightly until Harry was sure he had no breath left in his body and that he had hugged everyone at least twice.

"When you weren't on the train we got worried," explained Luna calmly. "Ginny explained that you were already here but Neville was still worried."

Neville blushed slightly.

"Well, you never know…" he began, but Hermione shook her head.

"It's alright Neville," she said. "I'm honoured by your concern."

"You're definitely here for the whole year then?" said Ginny. "No strange missions hunting down… you-know-whats…" Her voice lowered on the last word, casting a cursory glance around at their companions and at the other people who were arriving in the hall to fill up the spaces. Harry shook his head. They were here to stay for as long as Hogwarts could hold them. Ginny nodded and turned her attention back to Neville, Hermione and Ron, who were exchanging tales of the holidays. Presently, Professor Flitwick called for order and Luna made her way over to her own house as they sat down, awaiting the arrival of the first years.

"They look so small!" whispered Ron. "I swear that we weren't that small."

Harry stifled a laugh behind his hand and Hermione simply rolled her eyes, burying her forehead in her palm. Presently, the new students congregated at the front of the hall and eyed the battered hat with trepidation. The familiar rip near the brim of the hat opened like a gaping mouth, and much to the awe of the new first-years, the Sorting Hat began to sing.

"_Times may be looking bleak  
But traditions must withstand  
And to that end I'm here to lend  
A proverbial helping hand._

_So welcome one and welcome all!  
It's time to split you up.  
To find your house where you will live  
And try to win the cup._

_Perhaps you belong with Godric  
Under lion's mighty roar.  
Proud, bold and courageous  
Danger leaves you wanting more._

_Or how about with Salazar?  
Beneath serpent's watchful stare.  
The cunning and ambitious  
Will find like-minded there._

_Maybe you'll stay with Helga  
In the badger's careful paws.  
Loyal, honest and hard-working  
Unafraid of all life's chores._

_And there's finally Rowena  
And the eagle's witty beak.  
Here the wise and logical will surely  
Find out what they seek._

_But though these houses stand alone  
They must be at heart united.  
For no good can ever come  
When the founders are divided._

_Red and green and blue and yellow  
Come together all once more  
To find the greatest secret  
Hidden in these hallowed halls._

_I may only be a hat  
But take heed of what I say.  
For this cap's words may well be  
The ones to save the day._

As the hat fell silent once more, the hall burst out into spontaneous applause. Harry was not quite sure whether a hat had ever received a standing ovation before, but there was a first time for everything. True, the song that it sung was much the same as in previous years since Voldemort's return – warning the houses to stick together, but there was something else in it this year, a certain sense of imploring urgency. Harry wondered about it as Professor Flitwick began to call the names of the new students ready to be sorted. No-one really paid much attention during the sorting itself unless they had younger siblings coming into the school; although Harry knew that some of the others had fun betting which of the latest batch of wide-eyed would-be wizards would be in which house. The number of times that an unfortunate firstie had ended up in Slytherin because of the shape of his ears was really quite ridiculous. The Sorting Hat's message needed to be taken seriously; it was not the same this year as it normally was. That was a given. The only problem was working out precisely what it meant by the cryptic words. _Must be at heart united…_

"Hey Harry," said Ron in a hushed whisper, breaking off his train of thought. "Doesn't it look like they've lost someone?" He jerked his thumb towards the staff table, and Harry followed his gaze, but he couldn't see anything out of the ordinary. All the places were filled, who could they have lost?

"Who?" he mouthed back as 'Hawkins, Henry' became a Gryffindor and they had to shift a little further down the table to make room for him.

"Snape!" exclaimed Ron in a tone that was closest he could get to shouting with exasperation without actually raising his voice above the Sorting Hat's shout of 'RAVENCLAW' for 'Jones, Carrie'. "He's not there!"

Harry scanned the table again and had to concede that his friend was right. The disgraced defence teacher was not there, and since there was no place set for him, he was obviously not welcome. Briefly Harry entertained the notion that he had not actually returned, but he knew that this would be far too good to be true. But however inevitable his return was, the point had been made. Snape had been ostracised for his actions, a conscious action on the part of whom Harry did not know, but an action none-the-less. Somehow, this knowledge that the staff were not simply going to stand meekly aside and welcome a traitor back to their midst made him feel slightly better. Not happy as such, but grimly satisfied that Dumbledore was receiving some kind of half-justice.

"Oh come on," said Seamus to no-one in particular as the hat seemed to be taking an awfully long time to consider 'Pesadilla, Anthony'. "He's so clearly a Slytherin, it's written all over his face."

"SLYTHERIN!" yelled the hat finally, and a grumbling crowd of sixth-years handed over fistfuls of coppers to a grinning Seamus.

"Seamus, you should not be so good at guessing," said Dean. "It's ridiculous. But I wish it would hurry up; I'm starving here."

"If you hadn't spent all your money betting with Seamus on the train then you would have been able to buy a pumpkin pasty," observed Ginny sagely.

"Yeah, but gambling is more fun!"

The argument continued for a little while until the final student ('Winter, Thea') became the last Gryffindor of the year. The girl, quite clearly terrified, hovered at the side of the table looking at each of the unfamiliar faces in turn and obviously wishing she could be anywhere else but at Hogwarts in that moment until Hermione squeezed up and patted the space next to her. Although mostly distracted by the arrival of the food at long last, Harry could not help but notice the longing looks she kept sending towards the Ravenclaw table, where an older girl kept smiling and waving cheerfully at her. Harry guessed from their similar appearances that they were sisters, and he wondered at the strange system that could keep seven Weasleys in the same house and yet separate some other families, even down to separating identical twins. It was a mark of the things that made them individual human beings, he supposed. No-one was exactly the same. Having had three helpings of treacle tart and admitting that the food on the run would not be anywhere near as good as that at Hogwarts; Harry was quite content to just sit back in his chair and not pay much attention to Professor McGonagall's start of term speech when a tugging at the robes on his knee jerked him back to the present. He ducked under the table and found himself face to face with Dobby.

"Dobby?" he asked in disbelief. "Shouldn't you be down in the kitchen?"

"Well, yes sir, but Dobby had to talk to Harry Potter!" He motioned Harry to move closer and Harry folded himself further under the table with difficulty. Above him, he could hear Professor McGonagall call for quiet and begin her address.

"What is it?" he asked.

"Dobby has come to warn Harry Potter, sir. Strange things are happening at Hogwarts."

"Dobby, I've heard this before, and you can't try and make me leave Hogwarts this time because McGonagall will kill me. Probably with her bare hands. Overall, I think I'm safer staying here."

"Dobby knows, but all the same, there is great evil here, Harry Potter. Dobby can feel it. There is a great evil here that wasn't here before."

Harry thought of Snape and the anger boiled fresh in his veins. But Snape had always been there, and he had always been morally dubious even if it took Dumbledore's murder to prove his full capacity for evil. There was something new in the castle; that was evil. It could only be a horcrux. But a horcrux in the castle? How could it have got there? With ease, really, if he thought of the diary…

"Is it like last time?" he asked Dobby. The house-elf shook his head.

"No sir. That was intentional. This feels…" He paused, searching for the words. "Accidental. Dobby cannot explain it, it is an elf feeling, but Dobby had to warn his friends, sir." He backed up slightly. "Dobby must go now, there is much washing up to be done, but remember Dobby's warning, Harry Potter sir. Something is going to happen, we elves can feel it, and we will do our part when the time comes."

He vanished with a snap of his fingers and Harry extricated himself from under the table, banging his head as he emerged and interrupting the headmistress's speech. She gave him a sharp look and continued after he muttered an apology, earning him the immediate attention of everyone in the room.

"What was that about?" hissed Ron.

"Dobby," said Harry. "I'll tell you later."

He tried to focus on the end of Professor McGonagall's speech, but he couldn't, not when Dobby's warning was still ringing clear in his ears. He wasn't going to find the horcruxes; at the rate they were going, the horcruxes were going to find him.

* * *

**Note2: **DUN DUN DUN!

**Note3: **I am extremely proud of my sorting hat song. It took me ages!


	28. The Impropriety of Normality

**Note: **Only one chapter this week, and it was so nearly non-existent. I am mega-stressed from coursework and revision, and when my brain decided that it wasn't going to hold any more Mhd, I then had the dreaded block. Luckily, as soon as I made myself write this, the block disappeared and I got 1300 words done in 42 minutes. (Added to my woes, Dracula decided to take up residence in my head and proceeded to dispatch all the Harry Potter characters in rapid succession…)

**Note2:** I finally managed to get in a veiled reference to Spooks. Points for anyone who can recognise it.

* * *

**Chapter Twenty-Eight**

**The Impropriety of Normality**

"Harry? Harry?"

It was only when Ginny snapped her fingers in front of his face that Harry realised that she had been speaking to him. He had been so lost in his own thoughts that everything in his immediate vicinity had melded into a muddy background. Suddenly Ginny was pulled into sharp relief, her hair positively flaming against the dark green of the quidditch pitch. It was the first Saturday of the new term and the team trials were about to get underway. Having unofficially appointed Ginny as his second-in-command when the term began, Harry had not given the matter much thought, but he knew that the captain of the team could not shy away from his duties entirely, and he was going to have to concentrate on picking players if the Gryffindor team was going to hold any chances of holding onto the cup.

The trouble was, Harry was finding it exceedingly hard to concentrate. The initial euphoria at being back at Hogwarts with his friends had eventually worn off and he now had far too much to think about, none of it related to academia. Indeed, during the past few days of lessons it had been obvious that his mind was everywhere except his work. Professor McGonagall had given up trying to get his attention in her class and had made up for it with a thorough talking-to afterwards.

"Potter," she had sighed, "I know you have a lot on your plate at the moment but we all do. For Merlin's sake will you put a little more effort into stopping your thoughts from wandering through the fields of dreamland like a malcontent little pony!"

Harry did not begrudge her the new-found snappiness, after all, she was now doubly burdened with two full time jobs within Hogwarts, but that still didn't make it any easier to concentrate, not when he knew everything that was going on outside the castle. All the horrors that were being perpetrated by the new corrupt Ministry, all the lengths that the Order was going to in order to try and locate and destroy the horcruxes… It seemed wrong to be simply going on as if nothing had happened, to continue daily life within the formidable security that Hogwarts provided and ignore the terrors on the outside.

"Harry!" snapped Ginny. "Quidditch tryouts!" She pushed him onto the pitch before she lost him again, and Harry took a deep breath to clear his mind of clutter and focus on the task at hand. Once the first flyers were in the air and Harry was circling round them, observing and making mental notes, he found that coherent thought came a lot more easily. Hermione had said before that quidditch was in his blood, and flying was second nature to him. He was just as at home in the air as he was with both feet on the ground; he could not help but enjoy quidditch; it was a part of him.

The trials ran in much the same way as the previous year, although the new fifth-years had not returned to the team, wanting to focus on their OWL studies instead. Harry did not begrudge them their decision, but he knew that it was one that he simply would not have been able to take. There were the usual first-years from long-running wizarding backgrounds who thought they might have an advantage, and then simply sat on their school brooms in awed silence as they watched the far superior skills of their elders. And, of course, there was the one who tried out for a laugh and turned out to be so good that he made the team. Arnold Pimkin, a fourth-year, was so shocked when Harry announced the new team that he stood with his mouth hanging open for a full minute whilst his friends cheered and slapped him on the back, and even then, his only word was 'blimey!'

It was only as the sun began to go down and the pitch began to clear that Harry's mind returned to its previous turbulent state. He sat down in the stands, staring moodily out over the hoops as Ginny and Dean took the balls back to Madame Hooch's office. Ron sat down beside him, nursing an icepack conjured by Hermione against his head where a would-be chaser had aimed with rather too much force and he ad not been able to duck quick enough as the quaffle had come hurtling towards his right ear with the speed and ferocity of a bludger. Harry had entertained the notion of putting the enthusiastic player on the team with the sole aim of concussing the opposing keeper, but on narrow-eyed glance from Ron had told him that this would probably not be such a profitable idea.

"It's a good team this year," said Ron as he shifted the icepack. "I think our chances of hanging onto our crown are good."

Harry grunted non-commitally.

"Honestly mate, if the only time you think straight is in the air then we might have to get Hermione to perform some sort of permanent levitation charm on you."

Harry managed a wan smile at Ron's words.

"It just seems so wrong," he said eventually, finally realising the need to share his bottled and jumbled up feelings with a fellow.

"I know what you mean," said Ron. He leant back against the benches and looked up at the beginning of a bright full moon. "I mean, somewhere out there, Lupin's out looking for horcruxes as a wolf, and we're just sitting here watching the moon. But seriously Harry, do you think we aren't feeling exactly the same way? Everyone in this castle, apart from maybe a handful of muggle-born first years, knows what's happening out there and knows how lucky we are to be away from it all. But you can't beat yourself up over it. No-one's going to take you seriously if you go around brooding like a wet weekend all the time. If we all did that then there'd be someone jumping off the astronomy tower every five minutes, and Professor Sinistra would be having kittens. Ok, I know we've got slightly more to worry about than most, but we've still got to get on with life. Show You-Know-Who that no matter what happens, life's going to go on as normal and there's nothing that he can do to stop it."

"It's a better way Harry, honestly." Ginny sat down on his other side, following their gaze to the silent orb hanging in the sky above them. "Staying positive is half the battle, really. You know what they say. _Dum spiro spero_."

Harry nodded, the Latin sentiment somehow seeming to sum up the mindset of the school, of the Order. While I live, I hope. They all still had their lives, the most precious commodity that they could possess, and as such they were already better off than the hundreds who had fallen victim to Voldemort in the past year. It was not the best thought to begin a new positive outlook with, reflected Harry grimly, but it was a start. They were alive, and for the time being, they could enjoy being alive. Perhaps the time for worrying could come later and Harry was merely making things prematurely difficult for himself.

"Harry," Ginny urged, "you've got to take this opportunity to live a fairly uninhibited life whilst you still have it. At the end of the year you'll leave Hogwarts and be thrust out into the world, and then the worrying will really kick in. At the moment, there's nothing you can do so sitting around moping and feeling sorry for yourself isn't going to help anyone."

"I know," Harry conceded.

"It's not exactly going to make you feel any better about the whole thing, is it?" Ginny's tone was beginning to hold the nuances of irritation in it; Harry could tell that she had been saving up this speech for the entire week and had only now found the opportunity to release it with the appropriate force. "And the rest of us have to put up with your depression. It's almost palpable, Harry; you carry it around with you like a little black cloud. Some of us want to get on with life."

Harry looked to Ron for support against Ginny's miniature tirade, but Ron had obviously learned that his sister was a force to be reckoned with when it came to telling it like it was and just shrugged his acceptance of her words.

"She's got a point, mate," he said. "You have been walking around with your head in some very dismal clouds this week and it hasn't gone unnoticed."

Harry thought back to Professor McGonagall's words after her lesson; and to the pep talk that Ron had given him only a few minutes before. Everyone else seemed to be coping perfectly well, and if he was going to get anything done this year, he was going to have to as well. A small, snide part of his brain asked him what the point of it all was; after all, as soon as he left Hogwarts to go into the big wide world where his qualifications could be useful, there wouldn't exactly be much big wide world left for his qualifications to be useful in, so what was the point of trying to carry on a normal existence? He quickly pushed this thought to the back of his mind, fearing Ginny's reaction should he even so much as attempt to give a whisper of voice to it.

"That's why I think you should go back to the DA," she finished presently.

Harry didn't reply. Neville had approached him about the possibility of reforming the DA during the first day of lessons, when they realised that Defence Against the Dark Arts was really going to be nothing of the sort. Harry had not really been listening – he hadn't been listening to all that much during the past week – but it was clear that Neville was worried about the younger years, who hadn't had the benefits of Dumbledore's Army from its first inception and therefore were lacking in the most basic of defensive skills. When Harry had expressed his doubts, Neville had simply taken it upon himself to reform the group himself, and the first meeting was scheduled for that evening. Harry wasn't quite sure what Neville was planning to do once he had all the old members reformed in the Room of Requirement again, but what his friend lacked in skill, he more than made up for in determination and enthusiasm. Harry wondered at the different effects that the war had had on the both of them. Whilst he had retreated into his shell and the company of his own thoughts, so Neville had done the opposite, surprising them all with his new-found self-confidence and decisiveness.

"I think I ought to go to the hospital wing," said Ron suddenly and pointedly after a few moments of silence had encompassed them. "Get this seen to by a professional. Not that Hermione's not a fantastic witch, but, well, you know… " He trailed off and left them, waving vaguely as he went and promising to see Ginny at the DA meeting later. Ginny rolled her eyes, the action mimicking Harry's thoughts exactly. Ron had never been the paragon of subtlety, and it was obvious that he was only using the hospital wing as an excuse to leave the other two alone together. On realising that they were indeed alone together, all the would-be players and spectators having long-since left the stands, Ginny shifted uncomfortably. After a summer of politely avoiding each other and avoiding the question of the relationship that they currently held, it was strange to be suddenly thrown together like this again. Harry found it ironic that in the Weasleys' cramped house, they could lose each other quite easily and go days without seeing the other, as soon as they were in a place so vast that getting lost was a timetabled occurrence, they ended up in the same space more often than could be called coincidence. They were going to have to talk about it at some point, but for now, Harry was happy to put off the inevitable conversation for as long as possible. As awkward as they were now, though, they were perfectly civil on the pitch. Perhaps it was because quidditch was just as big a part of Ginny's life as it was Harry's, an entity that was bigger and more powerful than them both, and as such they both bowed to its greatness and put its needs before their own personal foibles.

"So, have we managed to talk some sense into you now?" asked Ginny presently. "Because I meant every word. It's not fun living with anyone's angst, least of all yours."

Harry nodded.

"I know. It all makes sense. It's just…"

She patted him on the shoulder gently.

"Your problem, Harry, is that you're determined to make life difficult for yourself. I've noticed this over the years. Sometimes you've just got to let other people do the worrying."

It was then that she realised she was still holding his shoulder, and she broke away suddenly.

"I'd best go and see how Ron is," she said, standing up and beginning to move down the stands. "You know how melodramatic he can be. He's probably telling Madame Pomfrey he was attacked by twenty-six rogue bludgers. I'll have to set the record straight." She paused, peering back up at him. "Maybe we'll see you tonight?"

Harry nodded. Maybe, in the wake of everything that had happened and in the wake of the conversation that he had just had, the DA was the way forward, the way to make a difference and, for as long as he still lived, to carry on hoping.

* * *

**Note3: **Well, I hope you enjoyed. I felt I needed a chapter from Harry's POV detailing what he'd be feeling having been diddled out of his horcrux hunting mission, but I don't plan on staying in this mode much longer as the whole point of C&I was to _reduce_ the amount of teenage angsting. Hence Ginny's mini-explosion there…


	29. Rearming the Army

**Note: **Hey folks, I'm back after my little blip, thanks for waiting on me when I had a crisis moment. This chapter was the annoying one. Finally, the only way I could make it work was to do it in part flashback form, like chapter ten. Enjoy!

* * *

**Chapter Twenty-Nine**

**Rearming the Army**

Neville looked around at the other occupants of the dormitory in the dim light, all sleeping soundly, or at least pretending to. He had the distinct impression that Harry was as wide awake as he was and waiting for Neville to say something, but for the moment, Neville was not going to give him the satisfaction. He was too busy thinking about the events of the evening to speak, turning over everything that had happened in such a short space of time. When he had first suggested banding together Dumbledore's Army again, he's had no idea how many of his old comrades would return to rally to the cause, but he knew that he could not simply give up before he had begun. Neville accepted that he was not the most skilled of magicians, and he knew that if he had always given up at the first hurdle, no matter how tempting it might have been, he would never have got as far in his life as he had. It was no secret that the Sorting Hat had dithered over Neville, wondering whether to put him in Hufflepuff, but he had ended up in Gryffindor, to his great relief. It was not that he had anything against the Hufflepuff house, far from it, but he knew that had he not been placed in Gryffindor, he would not have met the friends who had encouraged him to step out of his comfort zone and push himself onto greater things, to make full use of his Gryffindor courage.

All the same, Neville could not help but wonder at the path that his life would have taken had he been sorted into Hufflepuff, because he was very aware that his Hufflepuff traits were still there within his mind, lying dormant and waiting to be put into use whenever they were needed. His stoic perseverance in going ahead with the reforming of the DA was proof in itself. Idly, Neville wondered if anyone truly belonged in just one house, or whether they were all a mixture of the four.

Presently his mind wandered back to the beginning of the meeting, and the beginning of his Hufflepuffian tendencies coming to the fore.

_It felt good to be in the Room of Requirement again, thought Neville, looking around fondly at the space in which he had learned so much in his fifth year. It hadn't changed at all, but then that was the point of the Room of Requirement, he supposed. It was a constant and yet it wasn't; sometimes it didn't even exist and when it did exist it could take so many different forms, but it could always go back to the original. Well, Neville liked to think of the DA room as its original form because that was the state in which he had first seen it, but he knew that this was not really the case. He wondered what it had looked like when it had first been built, and if it even had a 'built' form so to speak. Was it even really a part of Hogwarts? It wasn't on any maps of the place. Perhaps it had been added as an afterthought by some sympathetic architect who had wanted to give the students a place of escape from the teachers. Maybe it wasn't even a room at all but rather the result of a complex enchantment. Hermione would know; she was probably the only person in the school to have read Hogwarts: A History, but deep inside, Neville knew that he didn't really want to know. The inherent element of unknown about the place was part of its attractiveness; it would not have been anywhere near as exciting if they knew the ins and outs of how its magic worked. _

"_I think everyone's here," said Luna beside him. Neville looked around, the majority of the old DA was there, along with a few eager-looking young faces of first- and second-years who wanted to learn some practical defence skills to aid them in the current critical circumstances. Luna had had the idea of reusing the coins that they had received during the club's first outing to get in touch with the old members again and then allowing the news to spread surreptitiously throughout the houses. As much as they wanted to get the DA back off the ground and to recruit as many new members as possible, they did not want to be too ostentatious should it come to the attention of someone who would have been better off being ignorant of its existence. _

_Neville took a deep breath to steady himself before he began his opening spiel, wondering how anyone ever managed to speak publicly with so many faces looking at them expectantly without making a complete fool of himself. Ginny patted him encouragingly on the shoulder and he stood up, clearing his throat to get everyone's attention. _

"_Erm, hello everyone," he began. So far, so good. "For those of you who don't know me, I'm Neville."_

"_Hi Neville," chorused the gathered Gryffindors. _

_Neville rolled his eyes. _

"_For those of you who don't know what we're doing here, this is Dumbledore's Army. We formed it a couple of years ago to teach ourselves defence against the dark arts, and we've decided to reopen our doors to new members in the current circumstances." _

"_Hear hear," said Dean, earning Neville a round of applause._

In hindsight, though, Neville was not quite sure why the reforming of the DA was so necessary from an educational point of view. Yes, they had Snape as a defence against the dark arts teacher, and Snape was a Death Eater who had killed Dumbledore. It made perfect sense that they did not want to be taught by him and that they would be wary of precisely what he was teaching them. Added to that, it was no secret that the curriculum had been so irretrievably mauled to pieces that the defence lessons were now designed to teach them the exact opposite.

But at the same time, Neville could not deny that Snape was a pretty good teacher. Personal detest and fear of and house prejudices against the man aside, he'd always had a very low fail rate with his students and he was more than capable when it came to class control. And from what Neville had heard from the people who had been in his classes this year, he did not seem to be focussing as wholly on dark magic as one might have been lead to think.

To be perfectly honest, Neville was pretty sure that he had reformed the club and had garnered so much interest in it once more out of pure defiance against the man, no matter what he might have said to the newest members in his opening speech.

"_We're here to learn to defend ourselves, because you never know what might be happening at Hogwarts in the next year, and with Snape as a teacher we're unlikely to be learning much of the 'self-defence' part of his subject." Neville paused. "We don't have quite the expert teacher that we had last time, but hopefully there are enough of us here that we should be able to help each other along and muddle through together. Anything's better than nothing."_

_And that, thought Neville, was the real reason why it had been so important to him to reinstall the DA at Hogwarts. During its first outing ,it had been more than a simple club for him, it had been a support network, a lifeline, and he intended it to become one for the other students as well. In these bleak and extremely uncertain times, with the Death Eaters and the Ministry hovering at the castle gates and waiting for their perfect chance to infiltrate, it was more important than ever that everyone had somewhere that they could turn to, and if the web of DA members was that somewhere, then that was a victory for Neville, a victory for Hogwarts. Presently Hermione pulled him out of his daydream with a tap on his shoulder._

"_It looks like we aren't going to have to worry about expert tuition after all," she murmured, and Neville followed her eyeline across to the doorway to the room, which had opened up again and was admitting a latecomer._

"_Harry!" exclaimed Ron, running across the room to his friend and causing everyone's attention to follow him, something that Neville was fairly sure Harry was trying to avoid. "You came!"_

_Harry nodded, obviously very aware of the entire room's eyes on him. He found Neville in the milling crowd and nodded his acknowledgement. There was a lot said in the silent gesture; it was more than a mere greeting. It was also part thanks, gratitude to Neville for having brought Harry back to the DA, a decision which both boys knew he would not regret, not in the end. _

"_Well," said Harry, coming over to Neville once he had managed to shake off Ron and the small group of starstruck first years. "Where do you want to begin?"_

Harry's willingness to let Neville be the leader of the newly reformed society had surprised him at the time, but having seen how easily he had delegated quidditch duties to Ginny over the past week, perhaps he should not have been quite so astounded. Harry still knew an awful lot more than Neville did and was far more competent when it came to casting the spells, that was undeniable. But it was Neville who had taken the initiative to bring the army back together again; it had flourished under his leadership, and it made sense, in Neville's head at least, to keep it that way lest Harry suddenly abandon it for whatever reason. He was not totally alone, thought Neville. Ron, Hermione, Ginny and Luna were all there rooting for him in the background, but it was Neville who was currently bearing the responsibility of a figurehead, a responsibility that had already been put severely to the test.

_They were about to call it a day; to pack up for the night and go back to their various houses, when the Room of Requirement let a couple more people into its secret depths. _

"_You're a bit late," Ron had begun, but he had tailed off on seeing the identities of the two students. They were Slytherins. _

"_This is Dumbledore's Army, isn't it?" one of them asked._

_Ron nodded dumbly._

"_Sorry we're late; it took us a while to find the room. We'd like to join."_

_Ron looked at Neville, and they both looked at Harry. His mouth was opening and closing with no words coming out, giving him the appearance of an apoplectic goldfish._

"_No," he said eventually. "Just no."_

"_Why not?" Neville asked. Putting the houses aside for a moment, he had already made the decision that the DA was a support network for the students who needed it, and they could not turn away someone in need simply because of the colour of their tie. _

"_They're Slytherins!" Harry exclaimed._

"_And?" asked one of the new arrivals frostily. "Not everyone who gets sorted into our house automatically becomes a Death Eater as soon as they sit down at the table. Some of us liked Professor Dumbledore as much as his precious Gryffindors did."_

_Harry turned to Neville, his expression somewhat pleading. _

"_What if they just go running to Snape as soon as this meeting's over?" he said._

"_They can do that whether we let them join or not," Luna pointed out matter-of-factly. _

"_We're still here, you know," said the other Slytherin dryly. _

"_Besides," Luna continued, ignoring him momentarily (Neville privately wondered if she had even heard him in the first place ), "Snape isn't the head of house anymore; he has no jurisdiction in that respect."_

"_He is deputy head though," said Ron._

"_True…"_

"_Oh for crying out loud," said Neville suddenly, "debating Snape's standing in staff pecking order isn't getting the problem solved!" He turned to the Slytherins. "You may as well know that the membership list is charmed. Once you sign it, if you sneak, the entire school will know. It will not be pretty."_

"_We know," said the girl. "We saw Marietta two years ago." She paused. "You do realise that the best way to solve your problem is to let us join and make us sign this list because when we do that, even if our intentions were to simply rat it out, we'd be unable to, and if we refuse to sign the list because we know the consequences, then you've every right to be suspicious and put extra security measures in place."_

_Neville was extremely grateful that someone else had saved him the trouble of thinking up a logical solution. He produced the membership list and a quill and handed it to the girl, ignoring Harry's spluttered protests. Both Slytherins signed._

"_Welcome to the DA," Neville said._

Neville had half-expected Harry to storm out in a temper then and they would have lost their tutor almost as soon as they had regained him, but he had stayed put, although evidently less than happy about the situation. It just went to show that Neville was in control of the DA now, and his decisions were the ones that were followed. His mind came full circle back to the Hufflepuff tendencies – would he have given the two Slytherin third years a chance had he been Gryffindor through and through and the pride of his house's symbol stood in the way? Probably not. It was so easy to write off the Slytherins as a completely bad bunch, but something in Neville was determined to give everyone a chance. Never judge a book by its cover, that was the rule, and never judge a student by their house. He was a prime example after all; in his earlier years no-one would have thought him to be a Gryffindor. For a moment he felt sorry for the Slytherins who were boundary cases like he had been, sometimes displaying traits more suited to the other houses. It must be hard to be part of a group which was inherently mistrusted as a result of the terrible failings of just one of its alumni.

Neville closed his eyes, a strain of the sorting hat's song penetrating his consciousness as he drifted in a doze.

_Red and green and blue and yellow  
Come together all once more_

They had certainly done that this evening, Neville thought. Presently a voice that was not the Sorting Hat's entered his perception.

"You made the right call," said Harry from across the dormitory. "With the Slytherins, I mean. I don't like it, but it was the right thing to do."

"We've got to give them a chance," said Neville with a yawn. "If we don't start doing some repair work now, then who knows what'll happen when push comes to shove? Remember what the hat said."

"True."

This understanding reached between the two Gryffindors, Neville drifted off to sleep, wondering how many Slytherins the next DA meeting would bring.

* * *

**Note2: **Well, there's a first time for everything… I am convinced that the other houses' constant ostracising of the Slytherins is as much to blame for their reputation as their own behaviour is.


	30. Secrets and Spindles

**Disclaimer: **Della was created for another fanfic in another fandom and I claim all ownership rights for her. I've said before I get nervous about OC's, I hope you get on with her. Ok, it's a bit of a copout to be borrowing from my other fics but I wanted to look into the minds of some muggles who have a rather different view of magic to the Dursleys, and the characters were there for the taking.

**Note: **One longer than usual chapter and one shorter than usual chapter instead of two average length ones or one long one: there was a natural split point and it felt stilted in any other format.

* * *

**Chapter Thirty**

**Secrets and Spindles**

The bookshop was a fairly unassuming place, nestled snugly between a block of flats on one side and a post office on the other. Much like the Leaky Cauldron's façade onto the outside world, it was a place that one could easily overlook if one had no active reason to be looking for it. But Irma did have a reason to be looking for it, and it was this reason that had brought her to an out of the way street in a quiet part of Cardiff. The shop window was dark and showed no signs of life in spite of the 'open' sign that hung on the door, inviting passers-by in with spidery calligraphy. The faded silver letters on the royal blue woodwork above the door read 'Spindles. Proprietor: Della Jones'. She had definitely found the right place. Now the only problem was working up the courage to go in. Irma took a deep breath, adjusted her uncomfortable muggle attire and prayed that she didn't look too ridiculous before letting the breath go again and allowing her nerve to fail her for the third time that morning.

After the 'Incident' as it had come to be tactfully known in the staffroom, Irma had taken Hermione's advice as to looking for books in unexpected places and the two of them had spent quite a few evenings over the past two months going over possible options. They were hampered by the fact that it was fast becoming apparent that the Ministry was keeping tabs on all the castle's incomings and outgoings, so had they sent out any message that was not heavily and undetectably encrypted, it would result in a governmental clampdown, the probable death of the intended recipient and their being even worse off than when they started. Hermione had been very pro-active in trying to develop some sort of secret code, but as the weeks had drawn on and her academic workload had increased, she had been less able to devote her free time to the cause of restocking the library, although she still spent a good proportion of her time in there. Irma had come to the conclusion that she was going to have to look somewhere that no-one else had suggested. It was only an idea, but the more she thought about it, the more she came to the conclusion that it was the only solution. You-Know-Who would never think to look in muggle bookshops for contraband works, so that was where Irma would look. After all, it was not unheard of for magical items to end up in non-magical hands. Didn't the Ministry have a whole team of people devoted to dealing with such cases? The only trouble was that Irma had absolutely no idea where to begin her search, since it was obviously unfeasible to search every muggle bookshop in the country until she found what she was looking for. She didn't know the location of the majority of the muggle bookshops in the country, only those around her local area in Dorset that she occasionally visited when the wizarding shelves yielded nothing new and the owl order service was being particularly slow. When these had proved useless, Irma accepted that she was going to have to start searching further afield.

It would have been far easier if Irma was not so terrified of that mysterious 'further afield'. She had lived in the same house all her life, rarely venturing beyond the confines of her village except to school, the school that had then become her workplace. She preferred to ignore the outside world as much as possible from behind a sturdy shield of books, and when the outside world intruded upon her quiet life without warning, it was always a frightening experience.

Well, they always said to take control of your fears before they took control of you, so Irma had decided to stop hiding behind the issue desk and be an active participant in the search for library stock, and it was this approach that had led her to Spindles. She was taking a leisurely walk around the library and glancing in what few muggle studies textbooks remained, preparing herself for anything untoward that might happen on her trip, when she had bumped into a first-year, literally. Just as she had been about to scold the girl for blocking up the aisle, she had caught the expression of sheer rapture on her face as she drank in her surroundings with the simple and wondrous awe. Irma knew that expression, for it was one that she had worn herself on seeing the Hogwarts treasure trove for the first time. Somewhere within her, Irma had felt a surge of maternal pride that somehow, despite being battered and bruised, her library still managed to be jaw-droppingly impressive. In that moment, Irma knew that she had found a kindred spirit in this young Ravenclaw.

"Impressive, isn't it?" she had said, and the girl had nodded.

"I've never seen so many books," she had breathed in wonderment. "And I live in a bookshop."

At this innocent declaration, Irma's heart had skipped a beat. Maybe, just maybe…

"What sort of bookshop?" she had asked, trying to keep her tone light and easy to mask the fact that her heart had begun to beat hard and fast in her mouth at the possible prospect of having found a place that might bear fruit.

"A magical one." Here Irma's heart sank to her boots faster than a brick plummeting from the top of the astronomy tower. "Well, not really. Not magical like this. My mum sells old books on witchcraft and spirits; angels and that kind of thing. I always wanted to believe that they were real and now I know they are."

Irma very nearly broke her own golden rule of library etiquette and screamed her happiness from the top of her lungs. Not only had she found a muggle bookshop, she had found a muggle bookshop specialising in old occult books. She managed to retain her composure enough to continue her surreptitious questioning and learn that the young Ravenclaw had grown up above her family's shop in Cardiff, a little place named Spindles on account of _Sleeping Beauty_ being her mother's favourite fairy tale and its being 'as good a name as any for a bookshop'.

And here she was, standing outside it and knowing that she was going to have to go in at some time soon. It wasn't that Irma was scared of muggles per se, it was that she'd had so little contact with the muggle world that she didn't know how to behave in their world in a way that wouldn't draw attention to the fact she was most definitely different, and she was always uncomfortable around any people she didn't know; magical and non-magical alike. That was why she had always retreated into the safety and the solitude of the library. Irma had always known where she was with books. Books were predictable. She could count on the majority of them not to do odd things out of the blue like people were wont to do. There were, of course, always some exceptions, but Irma was used to them. People were wholly unpredictable, and it was this unpredictability that made her so wary.

She took a step closer to the door, half of her mind reasoning that despite the open sign it really didn't look all that open, and maybe she should just give it up as a bad job and come back tomorrow, but she knew that if she didn't try now, then her courage would fail her even more dramatically once she was back in the safety of the castle, and she would not venture out to Cardiff again. This was the only chance that she had and she was going to take it, if she could only make her feet move.

Before she could take another step, before she could even take another breath, the shop's door opened, startling her into emitting a frightened squeak.

"Can I help you?"

The woman who was leaning out of the door looked blessedly normal apart from the fact she was wearing heavy purple doc marten boots that seemed wholly out of place with her slight frame. Irma had read about the muggles who called themselves 'white witches', and had come to the conclusion that they all looked rather like Sybil Trelawney on a bad day. The bookshop owner, thankfully, did not look to be of the same calibre, but Irma knew more than most that one should never judge a book by its cover. Irma fished around for a reply, her voice having suddenly deserted her and left her throat horribly dry.

"You look a bit lost," the woman in the shop continued.

Irma swallowed painfully and finally found her voice.

"This is Spindles bookshop?" she asked, knowing full-well that it was Spindles bookshop since she was standing just below the sign. The owner made no mention of this fact and nodded.

"Do you want to come in and have a cup of tea?" she asked.

Irma accepted the offer gratefully, and the woman disappeared into the darkness, leaving the door open for the librarian to follow. She stepped into the shop and closed the door behind her cautiously before looking around at her surroundings.

She had entered a muggle's idea of a magical wonderland, the nearest she could get to the genuine mysticism of Flourish and Blotts without using magic. Books were piled on every available surface, towering precariously on the floor and on chairs that were destined never to be used for their original purpose again. They were packed up to three deep in the book shelves that ran floor to ceiling around the walls and stuck out into the main body of the shop at various random intervals. Finally, they appeared to be holding up the cash desk instead of table legs. Irma didn't like to think what would happen if a customer wanted one of the editions in such a precarious load bearing position, because there were at least fifty books piled on the desk itself. The room was only a fraction of the size of the Hogwarts library and held only a fraction of the stock, but Irma was fairly sure that it had one of the highest book-to-available-space ratios that she had ever seen in a bookshop.

She sat down heavily on the only available surface that wasn't covered with books – the bottom rung of a rather rickety looking step ladder that was no doubt used to reach the uppermost shelves in the absence of summoning charms. The woman, undoubtedly the Della Jones whose name was painted above the door, was humming tunelessly as she moved around in the back room preparing tea.

"Milk and sugar?" she called.

"Please."

Della reappeared with two mismatched mugs and handed one to Irma, not seeming to be in the slightest bit startled by her choice of sitting position. She leaned against the edge of the desk, taking intermittent sips of tea.

"So, what brings you to Spindles?" she asked. "Are you looking for something in particular?"

Irma tried to think of a suitable excuse. As grateful as she was for the cup of tea, she had hoped that she would have been able to come into the bookshop, find what she was looking for and leave with the minimum of fuss.

"I…" She paused and thought logically for a moment. They were very obviously the only ones in the shop: she, the witch, and Della, the mother of a witch. Irma couldn't believe that it had taken her so long to realise that Della would know about magic. "My name is Irma Pince. I'm the librarian at Hogwarts school."

Della's politely inquiring face broke into a smile.

"Carrie told me about you," she said. "How do you do?"

"Very well, thank you." Irma paused and sipped her tea. "I'm looking to replace some of our stock that was… misplaced" (Irma still couldn't bring herself to say 'destroyed') "a few weeks ago."

"I'm not sure that I'll be able to help you," Della said doubtfully. "I don't really deal in what you know as magic, just our cheap muggle imitation of it."

Irma hid a smile; at least the bookseller was honest.

"But occasionally I get the odd book that isn't quite…" She struggled for the right words. "Isn't quite _right_," she finished. "I used to think that they were just very old or written by madmen, or indeed both, but after Carrie's letter, I began to think a little differently." She dived under the desk, pulling out a battered cardboard box. "I took them all off the shelves after that; didn't want them getting into unsuspecting hands in case something untoward happened."

She balanced the box on the edge of the desk and took out a battered work, blowing dust off the cover.

"_Secrets of the Darkest Art_," she read off the title page and grimaced accordingly. "There's some pretty horrible stuff mentioned in there." She returned her attention to the box. "_Mrs Beeton…_There's something very odd about that woman…_ Most Potente Potions_…"

Irma sprang up from her sitting position on hearing the title of the most-wanted book in the restricted section. How had such a book ended up in an ordinary muggle bookshop? She picked her way across the floor, avoiding the piles of books as best she could, and she peered into the box. There was no doubting that the volumes therein were magical. She recognised most of them from her own shelves, pulling them out of the box individually and running her fingertips gently over the titles as if she was greeting old friends. She felt the tears welling in her eyes as she pulled out _The Power of the Light: Advanced defence theories and their practice_, a volume that she had thought to be lost forever, the only copy that the school owned having gone up in smoke at the end of the summer.

"Familiar?"

Irma looked up to see Della absently shuffling a deck of cards, about the only thing on the desk that was not a book or the cash register. She nodded.

"Some of these are exceedingly rare," she said, the old defence book still weighing heavy in her hand. Irma didn't want to let go of it; having it there in her grasp made certain that it was definitely real, and if she put it down then there would always be the possibility that it might suddenly vanish for no reason.

The deck stilled in Della's hands. On closer inspection they revealed themselves to be tarot cards, exquisitely painted and inked, and Irma began to think that her initial appraisal of the young bookseller as nothing like Sybil was perhaps a little premature.

"Are they valuable?" she asked.

Irma nodded, and then cursed herself inwardly. Della was no doubt going to ask a ludicrously high price, and Irma did not have all that much muggle money with her.

"You'd better take good care of them, then," said the bookseller. She pushed the box towards Irma. "Go on. On the house."

Irma looked at her incredulously.

"Believe me, I'll be glad to be rid of them," Della said darkly. "Especially that one." She indicated _Secrets of the Darkest Art._

Irma had to take a sip of now-cold tea to recover her nerves. Della watched her with a small smile, dealing the first card of the pack.

"How appropriate," she said on looking at the picture. "Major arcana number five. The Heirophant. Associated with teaching, learning, and the acquisition of knowledge." Her eyes found Irma's again. "I don't take it incredibly seriously, but you can interpret it as a sign if you want to. I think I might have a little faith this morning." She glanced out at the rain that had begun to fall steadily in the time that the two women had been talking inside the shop. Irma knew that she must have been looking through the books in the box for a lot longer than she thought she had. "I'll fetch a lid for the box."

It occurred to Irma that she could simply use magic to seal the box against the rain, but it would probably be impolite to suggest it so she remained silent as Della disappeared into the back room in search of a lid. She ran her fingers over the cards and sneaked a peek at the next one in the deck before the books once more captured her attention and she fell to reading the nearest one.

"Here we are then," said Della brightly as she reappeared, cramming a lid onto the cardboard box and wrapping the whole thing in a plastic rubbish bag to make it slightly more watertight.

"Thank you," said Irma. She had no idea how to put into words the sheer level of gratitude that she felt towards this straightforward woman, but Della seemed to understand.

"Glad to be of service," she said. She paused, evidently thinking of whether to speak again. Finally she gave in to the urge. "Is my Carrie ok?" she asked. "She said she was fine in her last letter but every mother worries."

Irma nodded, feeling slightly awkward. She had not really had any contact with the young Ravenclaw excepting their one conversation in the middle of the library.

"I think she's doing well," she said, and this was enough to appease her mother.

"Give her my love if you see her again," Della said wistfully. Suddenly she straightened, pulling herself out of her melancholy as quickly as she had fallen into it. "Well, it was a pleasure doing business with you Madame Pince."

"Likewise, Mrs Jones."

After the necessary formalities, Irma left the shop, wishing that she had thought to bring an umbrella with her. She couldn't do any sort of magic until she was back in the little alleyway into which she had apparated, and by then it would be too late and she would be soaked to the skin. So caught up was she in trying to protect the box of books from the worst of the weather, Irma did not notice the shape moving in the shadows as she disapparated. If she had, she might have paid slightly more attention to the card that she had overturned in the shop…

* * *

**Note2:** And anyone with a vague knowledge of the major arcana has probably guessed its identity… Never mind. Onwards!


	31. An Uninvited Guest

**Disclaimer: **Della, Carrie and Gareth were created for another fanfic in another fandom and I claim all ownership rights for them. I've said before I get nervous about OC's, I hope you get on with them. Ok, it's a bit of a copout to be borrowing from my other fics but I wanted to look into the minds of some muggles who have a rather different view of magic to the Dursleys, and the characters were there for the taking.

**Note: **This is basically a continuation of the previous chapter, but it's told from a different POV, which is why I wanted to split the chapter into two. To reiterate, this chapter is shorter than average.

* * *

**Chapter Thirty-One**

**An Uninvited Guest**

If there was one thing that could be said in Della Jones' favour it was that she knew how to throw a party, particularly at Hallowe'en. Long before she knew of her daughter's magical potential, Della had always loved Hallowe'en. She held a professional fascination for its more traditional aspects, and her inner child loved the dressing up and copious amounts of sugar associated with the gawdy, commercialised holiday that had come to Britain from across the Atlantic. So, every year, for no other reason than because she could, Della threw a Hallowe'en party in her shop. She would drape spiders' webs over the shelves, cut gravestones and bats out of bin liners and together she, Gareth and Carrie would pick the biggest pumpkin they could find and carve it. The local supermarket's supply of food colouring was vastly depleted every time the 31st of October, with all manner of gruesome concoctions being served up at Spindles: red and green chocolate cake, purple jelly and a large bowl of potato salad in a rather worrying orange colour.

And, every year, once the guests had begun to drift away to take their children home to bed, those closest to the bookseller and her husband would settle in the backroom of the shop with the remains of the extremely alcoholic punch and talk about the true meaning of Hallowe'en. Sometimes Della would read her tarot cards, sometimes they would merely tell stories of magic, spirits and witchcraft.

This year was the first Hallowe'en without Carrie. As Della brought the half-emptied bowl of punch through to the backroom and Gareth lit candles – they were both dramatic at heart and loved 'atmosphere' – she wondered how a real witch celebrated what was ostensibly one of the most important events of the magical calendar. Della shrugged, perhaps Hallowe'en wasn't such as important date as everyone was led to believe. She would have to ask Carrie in her next letter. The bookseller couldn't help but smile at the thought of her daughter being a real life witch. Of all the people for this to have happened to, it had to have been the child of a woman with the magical capacity of a squeegee mop but enough belief to more than make up for it. Della settled herself in her favourite of the mismatched armchairs (a creaking tan leather thing with only three legs, the other corner being held up by a couple of volumes of the Encyclopaedia Britannica) and began to shuffle the cards idly.

"Any volunteers?" she asked.

"Do yourself, Della," Gareth said. "You've predicted our doom and gloom enough over the years, maybe you should try it yourself. Live dangerously."

Della shrugged and flipped over the first card. Everyone burst out laughing; it was, as Gareth had predicted in his roundabout way, Death.

"And excellent start," she said dryly. "I'll try again."

She reshuffled the cards, thinking nothing of the choice. Death never necessarily meant death. It could be a change, or a new beginning. Presently she dropped the cards, the deck feeling unnaturally cold in her fingers. As she scrabbled to pick them up, Della noticed that one was face-up, and it was with a sobering and horribly chilling sensation that she realised it was Death again. She shivered involuntarily, trying to rationalise with herself. Alcohol had made her fuzzy; her mind wasn't working properly. There was nothing sinister going on; it was all just a figment of her extremely overactive imagination. The skeletal, slightly reptilian face peered at her mockingly from the folds of the hood, red points of light twinkling in empty eye-sockets. Della had never before found the image scary, but now it unnerved her. She shivered once more and drew the folds of her cloak around her. She had purchased the item on the day that she had accompanied Carrie to Diagon Alley, a place so wonderfully magical that she could have quite happily stayed there for the rest of her working life. The witch in the shop had been surprised that a muggle would want to purchase wizarding clothing, but she had complied with Della's unusual request with good grace. A little reluctantly, Della pulled herself out of the fond memory and reshuffled Death back into the pack before dealing again.

The Heirophant. The same card that she had idly dealt that very morning when Madame Pince had visited her. Della's brows knitted together; it was not Death but it was still an unnerving coincidence. She dealt the second card, but before she'd had time to turn it over, there was a soft knocking sound from the front room of the shop. Someone was outside, wanting to be let in. A few spooky whispers passed around the group and Della smiled nervously as Gareth got up from his place to answer the summons. She listened to the rain pounding down on the roof of the shop ; whoever it was must have come on a specific quest to be here in such weather at such an hour. Either that or they were exceedingly lost and in need of directions to the station.

Della stared at the back of the card that lay on the table in front of her. Gareth seemed to be taking a lot longer than was strictly necessary and, perturbed, Della stood and peered around the edge of the door into the shop. She could just make out the dark, hooded shape in the doorway that Gareth was talking to, but she could not hear their conversation. Presently the figure looked up, and Della could not help but gasp at his appearance. She was staring at Death, his eyes red and shining, sunk into a pale and bony visage, flat and blunt like that of a snake even down to the slit-like nostrils and pupils. There was a brief moment wherein everything stood still, and Della knew that he had seen her, and he had seen into her very soul. His scarlet eyes bored into her own, penetrating her skull with a gaze so intense it was almost palpable. He smiled, almost imperceptibly, a smile of vicious and hungry triumph.

"Della…"

Della had never heard her husband sound so terrified in her entire life. She needed no further prompting, the warning tone in his words enough to send her bolting back into the back room, closing the door behind her and pressing herself flat against it as she surveyed her bemused guests.

"You have to leave," she said breathlessly, indicating the back door with a nod of her head. "I'm sorry but you have to leave now."

"Have the police discovered what really goes into your punch, Dells?" Someone laughed, waving a glass of the stuff around haphazardly and spilling ruby liquid onto a moth-eaten blue sofa. Della shook her head, now horribly and painfully sober, and she wished that there was some way to bring her friends to the same state of cold awareness.

"No, please, go, for your own safety, just leave, I'll explain everything later, but for God's sake if you value your lives, go!"

Finally, the hysterical outburst bore fruit and the shaken guests, now knowing that something was definitely wrong, began to leave, looking back over their shoulders at their trembling hostess, still pressed against the awfully thin and flimsy door that separated her from the… the… the _thing_ that was standing on the doorstep, the terrible vision of Death whose coming she had ignored despite it staring her in the face. Della swore that if she survived this visitation she would stop her dabbling and leave magic to the professionals like her daughter. Suddenly spurred into action, Della grabbed the phone and made to dial 999, but it was dead. Her blood ran cold as she heard a thud, the very real and very sickening thud of something soft hitting something solid, of Gareth hitting the floor.

Della opened the door a fraction and peered into the darkened shop. She looked around as much as she could, her stomach turning as she saw the heap on the floor by the entrance that she knew to be her husband. There was no sign of Death lurking in the shadows. Della weighed up her options. She was not so naïve as to think that he had gone completely and she had seen enough horror films in her time to know that the psychotic murderer was always extremely adept at finding his way into the most secure of havens. On the other hand…

Della's heart made up her mind for her and propelled her across the shop to Gareth, turning on the lights as she went.

"Please don't be dead," she murmured to him, and even though she knew deep down that it was a slim hope, she was still shocked when she turned him over to find his eyes glassy and staring.

"I'm afraid your pleas will be in vain, Mrs Jones. My sincerest apologies for intruding upon your _charming_ gathering."

The voice was as reptilian as the face to which it belonged, harsh and ice-cold. Out of the corner of her eye, Della could see the hem of dark robes moving between the shelves, but she couldn't bring herself to turn around and face this madman who had suddenly taken it upon himself to attack her family. Her family…

"Where's my Carrie?" Della asked. "What have you done to her?"

"Mrs Jones, rest assured that your daughter is perfectly safe and where she should be, and she will remain so as long as she doesn't take after her mother and _meddle in things she shouldn't._"

At this accusation, Della spun round.

"What have I done?" she challenged the entity who was standing calmly in the centre of her shop, wand outstretched. "What did I do to deserve this? What did Gareth do?"

Della knew that she was beyond rational thought now, and as she felt the first hot tears of rage and grief tumble down her cheeks, she wanted nothing more than to throw herself flailing at this interloper, the consequences be damned.

"Guilty by association," Death said airily, brushing aside the meaning of a human life as if he was swatting a fly. "You, however, have been _interfering_." He pulled a book out of the nearest shelf and perused it before it burst into flame in his fingers. Della flinched.

"How such esteemed works ended up in your filthy muggle hands is beyond me," he continued, "but we may as well liberate them whilst they're here." He flicked his wand and the nearest shelf exploded in a flurry of paper, the next following until there was a domino effect working its way around the shop. It was at that moment that Della knew for certain that she was not going to see another Hallowe'en.

_Carrie, forgive me_, she thought as she felt cold fingers enclose around her neck and haul her bodily off the floor, bringing her face to face with Death.

"Don't interfere in things that you are not worthy of understanding, Mrs Jones," he snarled.

The chain reaction reached the back room of the shop, the door flying open as if a tornado was ripping through the building. The last thing that Della saw was an all-too-familiar tarot card flying through the air towards her.

Major arcana number thirteen.

Death.

* * *

**Note2: **The strange food served up at the party was actually served up at our flat Hallowe'en party this year. With the exception of the orange potato salad, which we managed to stop our flatmate from making.

**Note3: **I am sorry to tell you that there is going to be another pause in the C&I updating for the next three weeks whilst I'm at home on holiday. I need the time to get my head together and relax from a really hectic eight weeks of exams and tests and coursework, but I'll be working on the next chapters at the same time, so hopefully there should be less blips in the future. The final film is out on 15th July and I'm determined to have it done by then! On the plus side, C&I is now officially the longest thing I have ever written. Yay! *Lets off fireworks.*


	32. Suspicion

**Note: **Thank you so much for bearing with me through my mad panic moment and my holidays. As a reward, here is a TRIPLE bill, albeit of slightly shorter chapters. Enjoy this first instalment and see if you can spot the Doctor Who reference.

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**Chapter Thirty-Two**

**Suspicion**

Hermione was worried, on several counts. On the first count, there was a commotion going on at one end of the Ravenclaw table, and she couldn't help but wonder nervously what was going on. On the second count, Madame Pince had succeeded in finding some defence against the dark arts books, and some not quite so kosher magical texts, in a muggle bookshop in Wales of all places. Normally this would not be a cause for concern; in fact it should be cause for celebration, but having had a cursory perusal of _Secrets of the Darkest Art_, Hermione was convinced that her new-found knowledge of horcruxes had only served to make their quest even more impossible. Added to the pressing problem of the horcruxes was the difficulty of contacting the Order without being detected by the Ministry. Before Hermione had the chance to think on her situation any further, the kerfuffle at the end of the Ravenclaw table cleared and Professor Flitwick left the hall with a young first-year. She hadn't noticed the diminutive charms professor within the throng of students, and as she watched them leave, she wondered what had happened.

"Her parents were killed last night." Hermione turned to find Luna standing beside her. Her voice was neutral, sombre but matter-of-fact, but there was a sadness in her big, round eyes that betrayed the empathy she felt for her young housemate. "She's muggle-born. Why would he attack muggles for no reason, randomly? Just because he can?"

Hermione's blood ran cold, making her shiver. If it turned out that the muggles in question had been helping the resistance by supplying them with information, however unwittingly…

"What's her name?" Hermione asked, eventually getting her voice to work its way around the lump in her throat.

"Carrie Jones."

Hermione nodded unconsciously. It was as she had thought. They remained in silence for a moment, a mark of respect for the dead that also gave Hermione time to gather herself together once more, and then Luna spoke again.

"Hermione, have you noticed something different about Professor Vector lately?"

Hermione's heart sank. That was the final count of her worries. The old arithmancy teacher had been acting distinctly uncharacteristically ever since the beginning of the term. Although strict and uncompromising when it came to homework, she was not normally what one might call irritable soul, but she had been exceedingly ill-tempered of late, unable to make up her mind and blaming the class when they did the wrong thing having been told several different versions of a calculation. She had not been aware of it at first, blaming the odd behaviour on the stress of the zeitgeist in which they were fighting, but the strange quirks seemed to have only been accumulating over the past weeks. She had been considering the possibility of her place having been taken by an imposter under the influence of Polyjuice potion, and she had not quite gathered enough evidence to either prove or disprove her theory. Other, more pressing things kept getting in the way of her investigations. She nodded in answer to Luna's question, and posed one of her own. Maybe, if she could garner Luna's assistance in her investigations…

"Do you think it's really her?" she asked.

"Polyjuice, you mean?" asked Luna. "Like Moody in the third year?"

"Yes."

Luna shrugged.

"It's possible, I suppose. After all, that other one managed to get in here right under Professor Dumbledore's nose. If it is someone else though, they aren't doing a very good job of trying to blend in." Luna sighed and took the vacant place next to Hermione, picking at a piece of cold toast from the remains of the Gryffindors' breakfast. "We need to ask her a question that only Professor Vector would know."

Luna's logical solution to the problem was so simple that Hermione didn't know why she hadn't thought of it before. The only difficulty was finding something that only Vector, and not an interloper, would know. A complex equation was out of the question; surely anyone who wanted to make a halfway decent impression would have a working knowledge of the subject that they were proposing to teach.

"She'll be in her office," said Luna absently, spreading jam onto the toast with a spoon. "It's Saturday."

Hermione made her mind up then. They were going to find out the cause of Professor Vector's eccentricities once and for all, and they were going to do it now before anything else had a chance to push itself to the forefront of her mind and demand urgent attention. She turned to Luna.

"Shall we go and see her then?" she asked.

Luna smiled. Whilst so many wrote off the Ravenclaw as a couple of radishes short of a salad, Hermione knew that she had a practical and scheming mind when she needed to behind the vague visage.

"Why not?" She paused. "Have we got a plan as to what happens if it turns out that it is an imposter and she tries to kill us like the fake-Moody tried to kill Harry?"

Ah, thought Hermione. Trust the Ravenclaw to spot the obvious problem instead of charging in like a Gryffindor. There could be no doubt that Hermione would have got on well in Ravenclaw; the Sorting Hat itself had said so, but there were definitely times when she possessed the same blind and irrational courage that Harry and Ron so often displayed.

"Perhaps we should tell someone where we're going," suggested Luna placidly. "With a suitable excuse, of course. After all, we don't want the rumours that Professor Vector is actually a mad Death Eater running around the entire school now, do we?"

"No," Hermione agreed. She thought for a moment. "Ginny," she said to her neighbour, "Luna and I are going to talk to Professor Vector about the Skasis Paradigm. We'll be back for lunch."

Ginny nodded and returned to her toast.

"You do realise that the Skasis Paradigm doesn't actually exist," said Luna as they left the hall and made their way towards the seventh floor corridor where Professor Vector's office could be found.

"That doesn't mean we can't be going to talk to her about it," said Hermione. "We spend hours discussing fictitious works and other less-than-completely-real phenomena."

Luna nodded.

"Have we decided what we're going to ask her yet?"

Hermione didn't reply. Her mind had been trying to work on a suitable question ever since they left the hall, but the fact remained that she simply didn't know the arithmancy professor well enough to find anything that they had in common that she could ask about, and she continued to rack her brains all the way to her office door.

Luna took the simple initiative and knocked.

"Come in," snapped an irritable voice from behind the door. The two witches looked at each other for a moment with the unnatural tone and entered cautiously. Normally Professor Vector would never attempt to discourage someone who was seeking her assistance. Like all the other teachers, she was passionate about her obligation to help those with difficulties who wanted to succeed in her subject.

The professor in question was sitting at her desk with her head in her hands, but when she heard the dor click closed behind the two girls, she looked up at them over the top of her spectacles.

"Well?" she demanded.

"We were just wondering, Professor, if…" Hermione tailed off. _We were just wondering if you are in fact an imposter in disguise and you're keeping the real professor in a wardrobe somewhere._

"I wanted to know if you could recall which question I got wrong on last year's exam," said Luna pleasantly. !I came to see you about it but I can't remember what it was."

It was a fairly ridiculous notion, but coming from Luna it was entirely plausible. Hermione half-wondered if her friend was in fact telling the truth.

!Do you expect me to remember every problem that every student comes to me with?" asked Professor Vector. "I always said that you had a memory like a sieve, Miss Lovegood."

Luna and Hermione looked at each other, and the seventh-year's hand went to her wand. The professor had dodged the question…

"The Vortex Protocol," said the elderly witch suddenly. "It was the Vortex Protocol. I remember it distinctly because you tried to explain the fundamental rules of arithmancy using _wrackspurts_ as an example." She shook her head, and for a brief moment, her dour expression faded. "It was a most unique take on my subject," she said fondly, her voice faraway, as if she had forgotten the students' presence in the room.

Hermione looked at Luna, who nodded before shrugging her shoulders. After their initial suspicions, it was clear that Professor Vector was who she said she was and not a Death Eater or other malevolent presence. All they had to do now was to find the read cause of her out-of-character behaviour, something far easier said than done.

"Is there anything else you wanted, Miss Lovegood, or have you forgotten where the door is?"

"No, that's all. Thank you for your time, Professor."

They made to leave the room, but as they did so, Hermione caught a glimpse of something out of the corner of her eye. She twisted to look at it fully over her shoulder but it was gone, and she shrugged, passing it off as a trick of the light. As soon as she turned away, however, it glittered again, and she tried to focus on it without moving her head. The thing that had caught her eye was Professor Vector's pendant, sparkling in the sunlight. Except there was no sunlight. The day was bleak and grey outside the windows. The shimmer she had seen was the telltale shimmer that accompanied a magical glamour of concealment when viewed from the right angle; a giveaway that the item did not look exactly as it should.

"Come on Hermione," said Luna, nodding towards the door. "We've taken up enough of Professor's Vector's time.!

Hermione neither moved nor replied, trying to see the object behind the glamour, and her heart leapt to her mouth when she realised what it was and where she had seen it before. It was certainly not whilst it had been in Professor Vector's possession.

Time seemed to catch up with her in that moment, propelling her out of the door with Luna behind her.

"Are you alright?" the Ravenclaw asked, her voice concerned at the sudden change in her friend's demeanour.

"The locket," Hermione said faintly. "It's her locket."

"What about it?" asked Luna. "It's the same one she's always had."

"No, it's not," Hermione continued. "It's glamoured." She paused, unable to believe what she had seen with her own two eyes. "I've got to tell Harry and Ron. See you later, Luna."

She set off in the direction of Gryffindor tower at a sprint, leaving Luna behind, seemingly unfazed by her sudden abandonment. Hermione did not stop running until she reached the boys' dormitory, where Harry and Ron were discussing tactics for the forthcoming quidditch match against Hufflepuff.

"I've found it," she said, collapsing onto Neville's bed to get her breath back. "I've found the horcrux."

"What? Which one? Where? Who?"

The questions tumbled forth from the boys' lips in a torrent of excitement and disbelief.

"The locket," Hermione gasped. "It's round the neck of Professor Vector. She's been wearing the blessed thing all year."

* * *

**Disclaimer:** Credit to **Garth Nix**: the idea of only being able to see the truth out of the corner of your eye comes from his 'Keys to the Kingdom' series. I've used it quite a bit in various fanfics over the years; it's such a nifty little concept. I think he also came up with the concept of glamouring as well.

**Note2:** Onwards and upwards!


	33. The Vexing of Septima Vector

**Note:** Second part. Enjoy!

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**Chapter Thirty-Three**

**The Vexing of Septima Vector**

"_The locket," Hermione gasped. "It's round the neck of Professor Vector. She's been wearing the blessed thing all year."_

There was a moment of awed silence, and Hermione felt things fitting into place in her mind. Dobby's warning to Harry at the start of term feast, a warning of a new evil that had entered the school. It could only be the horcrux.

"It's got to be destroyed," said Harry simply, breaking the silence.

"The only question is how," said Ron. "I mean, you destroyed the diary with the basilisk's fang, but they aren't exactly handy to come by."

"The sword," said Hermione suddenly. "Gryffindor's sword. I reckon that's why Dumbledore left it to you. I was reading it in _Secrets of the Darkest Art_ this morning," she explained to the boys' incredulous expressions. "It's long and complicated, but after your fight with the basilisk, the sword will be impregnated with its venom. It's one of the only things that can destroy a horcrux, along with Fiendfyre and a couple of other really powerful, uncontrollable pieces of magic." She paused. "Since basilisks and Fiendfyre are mostly only used by Dark Wizards anyway, they would have little to fear in that respect."

Ron and Harry nodded their agreement, and Hermione thought it amazing how they could setill be so surprised by the breadth of her knowledge after all these years.

"Do you think that Voldemort will try and possess her like he did Ginny?" Ron asked. Hermione nodded.

"I think he's trying as we speak. She's been different these past few weeks; that's what led to me finding out."

Ron paled visibly although he said nothing. Hermione knew that even though the events were nearly five years ago, what had happened to his sister in the chamber of secrets still affected him deeply. "Obviously, we've managed to catch him slightly earlier in the scheme this time."

"We need to get the sword from Professor McGonagall," said Harry. "The sooner the better."

Neither of the others disagreed with him and they set off towards the head's office. Hermione could not say precisely why they were moving at a half-run, but the urgency seemed fitting. Now that they knew where the horcrux was and how to destroy it, there was no point in delaying its demise any longer than necessary and letting it gain an even tighter grip on the arithmancy teacher.

They reached the stone griffon that guarded the head's door and stopped, unable to go further.

"So now what?" asked Ron. "What are Professor McGonagall's favourite sweets? I know she's always got a supply of ginger newts on hand."

"Ron," said Hermione, "we can't just try and break into her office. Besides, just because Albus Dumbledore protected his office with confectionary doesn't mean that his successor will."

Ron didn't reply, and Hermione turned to see what he was looking at over her shoulder. The griffon had sprung aside, affording them clear passage up the steps.

"I think it was 'Albus'," said Harry, trying to hide a small smile. "Well, seeing as we're in, so to speak, we might as well go up."

Hermione nodded, dumbstruck, and followed the boys up the stairs. By the time they got to the top, they were taking three at a time, and Hermione grimaced as they crashed into the office without a pre-emptory knock and stopped dead. Professor McGonagall was not alone. Snape was in the office with her, regarding the newly-arrived students with the same cool and disbelieving expression as the headmistress.

"I am assuming, you three, since you came in here at such a pace, that there is some sort of dire emergency on hand?" she asked.

Ron nodded; all three knew that it was best to remain silent in Snape's presence. Thankfully Professor McGonagall noticed their reticence and dismissed Snape. He sneered as he passed them, and Hermione made no attempt to disguise a shudder of revulsion.

"We need Gryffindor's sword," said Harry as soon as the door had closed behind the deputy headmaster and his tread had died away down the stairs.

"I beg your pardon."

"There's a horcrux in the school. Professor Vector has it," Hermione explained. "I don't think it was intentional," she added on seeing the headmistress's eyes narrow in suspicion. "But the fact remains that she has it, and it needs to be destroyed, and the sword is the only thing that can…"

"… that can destroy a horcrux," Professor McGonagall finished for her. "Yes, I had surmised as much." She paused. "Poor Septima. She has been exceedingly out of sorts these past two months. It should hardly come as a surprise."

Presently the transfiguration teacher rose and moved to the glass cabinet where the sword that Harry had pulled from the sorting hat in his second year lay. She unlocked it with a tap of her wand and carefully lifted it out, presenting it hilt-first to Harry.

"That's it?" he said. "You're just going to give it to me?"

"It is legally yours," explained Professor McGonagall, "and I am sure that you know much more of these dread items than I do. Added to that, time is of the essence, and I see no point in wasting any on fruitless discussion." She gestured to the door. "Let's go."

As the four of them reached the bottom of the stairs, Ron, who was leading the party, stopped dead.

"Won't it be a tad suspicious, running around the school with a hulking great sword?" he asked.

"Mr Weasley," said Professor McGonagall drily from the rear of the convoy, "this castle has seen so many imagination-stretching events in its time that the extraordinary has become common-place. I am sure that the headmistress and the school's three most interesting students running around with a 'hulking great sword' will not give anyone lasting cause for concern, but a disillusionment might be profitable in the short-term."

She cast a spell and the sword disappeared. Ron shrugged and they set off in the direction of the arithmancy teacher's office once more, Hermione explaining what had happened to Professor McGonagall as they went.

Professor Vector started as they entered.

"What's going on, and why does that boy have a sword?"

The trio looked down at Harry's hand sheepishly to find that the disillusionment charm had worn off. Professor McGonagall came to the front of the group, and Hermione realised why she had come along on their quest. None of them would have been able to adequately explain the situation to the nervous and worn-down teacher.

"It's about your necklace, Septima," she said gently, sitting down in the chair opposite her colleague.

"What about it?" she asked, her fingers curling around the pendant protectively.

"We think it is glamoured." The headmistress passed her wand over the other woman's knuckles, and when she released her grip, the locket of Slytherin was clear to see.

"That's not mine," said Professor Vector, her voice shaking. "That's not my necklace."

"We know. Septima, this locket is cursed, powerfully cursed. It needs to be destroyed."

Professor Vector's eyes flickered to Harry.

"Hence the sword?"

"Hence the sword."

The arithmancy teacher nodded.

"Well, there's no time to lose then, is there?" she said, trying to sound cheerful and failing miserably. Now that she seemed to be aware of the locket and its dangers, Hermione noted that she was acting far more like her normal self. She made to take it off but the chain caught and her eyes widened.

"Minerva, it won't come off," she whispered, her face a picture of unadulterated terror.

There was silence for a moment as the gathered occupants of the small office wondered what on earth they could do. Finally, with shaking hands, Professor Vector held the drop as far away from her neck as the chain would allow, gently placing her other hand under the locket in an attempt to steady it.

"Can you do it like that?" she asked Harry.

He came over and turned the locket round in his fingers, running a thumb over the serpentine 'S' before handing it back to the professor, nodding unsurely.

"I'll have to open it," he said, more to himself than the others. "It's hidden inside."

Hermione looked on as Harry hissed a single word of Parseltongue.

Then all hell broke loose.

The room filled with thick, swirling, grey mist, incoherent and incomprehensible shapes forming out of it as it whirled like a tornado in the little office, sending Professor flying backwards as the tremendous force of mind contained within the locket struggled to push free from its confines and search out a suitable victim. The woman hit the wall behind her with a sickening crunch, and as Hermione battled her way across the floor to help her, a terrible voice began to speak, echoing from the confines of the necklace. How could something so small contain something so incredibly evil?

"_Septima Vector_," said the voice, a hissing, snake-like voice but nonetheless a mesmerising one that commanded attention, almost hypnotising those who heard it into listening. "_You are a Slytherin like my own kin, a commendable witch, but there is much weakness in your frail and mortal heart._"

Hermione finally reached her teacher to find that she was still conscious despite her blow, but only just, and there were tears welling in her half-closed eyes as the voice continued to torment her.

"_All those hours that you spend, wondering what Brian does whilst you spend so much of your time closeted away in your little office here, miles from home. You know that your elusiveness and overwork has driven him to other women, you know that he's laughing behind your back_."

"Harry, do something!" Hermione screamed above the roar of the voice and the roar of the whirlwind. Half of her was glad that the arithmancy office was at one end of a deserted corridor and it was more than likely that the rest of the school could not hear the commotion therein, but half of her was desperately hoping for someone to come and assist them in their plight.

"There's nothing I can do!" Harry replied, exasperated as he battled against the swirling winds. Hermione looked down to see the locket clutched between Professor Vector's fingers once more, her grip tight and unrelenting.

"Let go!" she called to her teacher. "Let go of the locket!"

The professor either did not or could not hear her, watching helplessly as the smoke began to melt into form; beautiful, scantily-clad young women emerging from the mist, all laughing cruelly with the same voice. In desperation, Hermione prised the older witch's fingers from round the locket and yanked it away from her neck, her stomach lurching when she drew blood but this feeling overwhelmed by relief when she managed to get it free, slamming it down on the flagged floor and holding the chain steadily away from the teacher's neck. She closed her eyes, as Harry brought the sword down and there was a sudden, ear-splitting scream. Then there was quiet in the office once more.

Hermione looked to see that the room was light again, and Harry standing panting over the sword, impaled in the twisted metal that had once been a locket. He reached down and pulled it free from Professor Vector's neck fully as the older witch slid into full unconsciousness.

"Did someone let a crumple-horned snorcack loose?" The voice had come from the doorway and Hermione peered over the desk to find Luna standing there, calming watching papers fluttering from the ceiling. "I thought I might have left my quill in here," she continued by way of explanation.

"Miss Lovegood, since you are here, could you please fetch Madame Pomfrey, as quickly as possible." Professor McGonagall got to her feet from where the horcrux had kept her pinned to the ground. "Mr Weasley, ask the first member of staff you find to contact Professor Vector's husband. Yes, even Professor Snape if he is the first you come across," she added sternly before Ron had a chance to formulate his question. He closed his mouth and left the room. As the three remaining occupants gathered to help the arithmancy teacher, Hermione was sure she heard him speak in muted tones.

"Three down, three to go."

* * *

**Note2: **Ok, that was slightly more epic than planned. Phew! Onwards!


	34. RAB Revealed

**Note: **Final part of today's triple bill. Enjoy!

* * *

**Chapter Thirty-Four**

**RAB Revealed**

"Will she be ok?" Hermione asked the mediwitch. Madame Pomfrey did not answer immediately, but eventually she nodded.

"I think she will be fine, although it is too early to say for certain," she replied thoughtfully. "What is it about this school that attracts cursed necklaces?" she muttered under her breath as Hermione moved away to rejoin the boys, where they were sitting on a bed having been patched up following their fight with the horcrux. Thankfully Madame Pomfrey had not asked too many questions about the accursed jewellery, merely treating their minor abrasions and returning her attention to the far more pressing case of the stricken arithmancy professor.

"Hermione, only you could be so concerned after the welfare of a crabbit old professor," said Ron, shaking his head in disbelief.

"Ron, be fair, she's just been almost possessed by Voldemort," said Harry. "I'd be concerned for the welfare of anyone who'd undergone such an ordeal."

"I know, I know, it's just the principle of the thing!" said Ron, his long arms windmilling as he tried to explain his point with little success. "What if it was Malfoy?" he asked finally.

"Ok, then I might not be so worried," said Harry. A ripple of laughter ran around the group but Hermione was only half-listening to the conversation, her mind still going over the myriad inexplicable ideas that had been occurring to her ever since she had seen the locket hanging around Professor Vector's neck. How had it ended up in her possession anyway? It was a well-known fact that the arithmancy teacher wore a locket inscribed with her initial and a switch would not have been so difficult to engineer, but who would have done such a thing in the first place, and why? Hermione found her thoughts coming back to the same person, but this answer always seemed to have something illogical about it. The most obvious suspect was, of course, Snape, but why would he take such an unmitigated risk? For it was a risk, hiding something in plain sight. However safe a stolen walking stick was amongst other walking sticks, there was always the chance that someone might recognise it as being not quite as it seemed. And where could he have got the locket from in the first place? Would RAB have given it to him, whoever RAB was? Had Snape stolen it? Hermione shook her head as her theories became ever more ludicrous and threatened to overwhelm her capacity for rational thought. Perhaps she was simply using Snape as a handy scapegoat.

"We should probably go," said Ron, looking down the ward at the clean white beds, all unoccupied apart from the curtained off one at the very far end , and the one upon which they sat. "Madame Pomfrey'll probably want to dose us with something if we stay here much longer."

Hermione and Harry agreed and they made to leave the hospital wing. They had barely come through the doors when they had to stand to one side to allow Professor McGonagall and an elderly man to hurry into the ward. Hermione caught a snatch of their conversation as they passed her, and she paused at the slightly open door, hoping to hear more.

"It was her necklace, Brian," Professor McGonagall was explaining. "Her necklace was cursed."

"Necklace?" Mr Vector's voice had sounded surprised… and more than a little guilty. Hermione shook her head once more; it was a mark of the times that she was so paranoid as to believe that Mr Vector had deliberately given his wife a horcrux in a locket, but one could never be too careful.

"Hermione?"

She turned to find Harry and Ron staring at her suspiciously.

"I'll catch you up," she said, waving them away frantically before someone passed the hospital wing and commented on their presence. The two boys left her, neither seeming to be entirely convinced of the sanity of her actions. Hermione smiled wryly, sinking back against the door to allow Professor McGonagall to leave the room without noticing her. She was not entirely convinced of her sanity herself, but she knew that she was not going to rest until she got to the bottom of what had just occurred. To Hermione's logical and scientific mind, it was not enough to simply have destroyed a horcrux and be done with it. She wanted to know how the blasted thing had ended up in the school in the first place. Who knows, she said to herself. It might help them along the way to finding the next one. She inched inside the doors, taking care not to disturb them and cause them to creak. She sat down on the nearest bed and tuned into the conversation, albeit a slightly one-sided one, that was taking place at the other end of the ward.

It was not the first time that Hermione had done something less than morally correct in the quest for knowledge – stealing ingredients for polyjuice potion sprang immediately to mind – but it was the first time that she had felt truly uncomfortable about doing it. Purloining ingredients from Snape was totally different to eavesdropping on a husband's private regret for an event that, had fate been allowed to take its course, would have claimed the life of his wife. Hermione tried to reorder her jumbled thoughts. That made it sound like he was regretting the fact that she was still alive.

"Oh Sep, I'm so sorry," said Mr Vector presently. "It's all my fault. I swear I didn't know. I didn't mean any harm, but I know how much you loved that locket, and you would have killed me if you'd known…"

The tale was becoming stranger and stranger, Hermione thought, and it was in that moment that she decided that the best way to get to the bottom of the mystery was to stop beating about the bush and start asking questions. She slid off the bed and started down the ward.

"Mr Vector," she began, feeling it better to announce herself. The older man gave a startled squeak and peered round from behind Professor Vector's curtains. He was what muggles would call a typical academic: wide and darting eyes blinking at her from behind bottle-end spectacles. His robes were dusty and ink-stained with patched elbows, and he was sporting a truly magnificent grey beard that could have rivalled Professor Dumbledore's. He most certainly did not look to be the sort to dally with danger whilst his wife was away.

"Hello?" he ventured nervously. "Can I help you?"

"Erm, I hope so. My name's Hermione Granger…"

"Ah, you were the one who realised," said Mr Vector. "The headmistress was telling me what had happened." He paused, looking down at his boots for a few moments before finding Hermione's eyes once more. "Thank you," he said, with genuinely heartfelt gratitude. He glanced back at his wife. "I really don't quite know what I'd do without Septima to keep my feet on the ground."

Hermione thought it best to tactfully ignore the last statement and she pressed on with her own line of enquiry.

"Mr Vector…"

"Please, call me Brian, everyone does."

"Alright then, Brian, I'm just curious as to what actually happened. Professor Vector's had that locket for years; how did it come to be cursed?"

A slightly sheepish look came into Brian's eyes, and he glanced around furtively for witnesses before beckoning to Hermione to come closer. She stepped into the curtained-off cubicle and Brian drew up another chair out of thin air with his wand, motioning for her to sit. Hermione complied and after a few moments' pause, he began to speak.

"It's rather a long story, and a little embarrassing," he said. "I'd appreciate it if it doesn't go any further than here."

Hermione nodded her agreement and Brian began his tale fully.

"Septima's always loved that locket; she's had it since she was born, although it's had so many new clasps and chains and magical repairs that it can scarcely be called the same item.

"But that's slightly astray from the point. At any rate, the locket needed a new clasp this summer, and I planned to take it to the jewellers in Diagon Alley and have it fixed in time for Septima's birthday at the end of August. Unfortunately, as you can see, the majority of my pockets are afflicted with holes of varying shapes and sizes, and well, the inevitable happened." Brian broke off and picked at a fraying thread on his cuff. "She kept telling me to get new ones," he murmured mournfully before coming to himself and continuing his story.

"I searched all over for it but the locket was well and truly lost, and I knew that Septima would kill me if she found out. I only had one day before she would miss it, so naturally I was panicking a little.

Hermione hid a smile at this; Brian did not seem to be the sort of man who could panic a little without panicking a lot.

"As luck would have it, there was a hawker nearby selling bits and pieces of antique jewellery, so I went over and took a look. And, as luck would have it, there was a locket that was so similar to Septima's that I almost thought that I'd been pickpocketed. On closer inspection, it was not exactly the same, but the similarities were uncanny, even down to the 'S'. I bought the locket – well, I bought the locket after a bout of awful haggling on my part – and I cast a glamour over it to make it look the same as Septima's. No harm done, or at least I thought not."

He looked down at his unconscious wife and smiled sadly.

"Oh Sep, I never think, do I? You always say so."

He lapsed into silence and Hermione fell to thinking. Brian had been the unwitting cause of the locket entering the castle, but who had that hawker been? In Hermione's mind, there could be no doubting that he was the key to the entire conundrum.

"The only slight hitch was that the new locket wouldn't open," said Brian absently. "No matter how hard I tried. But since Septima has nothing in hers, I didn't think it was all that important."

It was at that moment that a thought struck Hermione with so much force that the blow might have been physical. She was hit suddenly with an image of the summer spent in Grimmauld Place before their fifth year. During their frantic cleaning of the derelict house, they had found a locket that no-one could open. And hadn't they caught Mundungus selling items from number twelve last year?

"Mundungus," she said out loud, causing Brian to regard her with a slightly startled expression.

"Pardon?"

"Was the hawker you nought the necklace from named Mundungus Fletcher by any chance?" Hermione continued eagerly. She was so close to finding the answers that she sought that she could feel herself leaning forward in her chair in anticipation of Brian's answer.

"I have absolutely no idea," the wizard replied faintly.

"Short and squat, slightly bow-legged, untidy hair and terrible fingernails?"

Brian nodded unsurely.

Hermione rejoiced inwardly, the pieces of the puzzle finally falling into place. Now only one problem remained, she thought as she thanked Brian for his time and left him alone with his wife. How had the horcrux ended up in Sirius's house in the first place? It was only once she was halfway to Gryffindor tower that she remembered it. Sirius's brother had been a Death Eater. A short-lived Death Eater. It was always possible that the reason his career in Voldemort's employ had been so short was his discovery of the horcruxes and their turning the direction of his opinions. Hermione stopped in her tracks, turned on her heel and ran towards the library, not stopping until she reached the Wizarding Genealogy section, one of the few parts of the history department that had remained intact. Madame Pince gave her a narrow-eyed look as she shot past the issue desk, but she said nothing to slow her down. Finally, Hermione found what she was looking for. Sirius's younger brother, one Regulus Arcturus Black. RAB.

She sat down on the floor heavily, the book balanced precariously on her lap as the adrenaline that had carried her through the past few hours finally ran out. The truth would have been so comparatively easy to find. They might have found out accidentally at Grimmauld Place had they stayed there any longer. It was strange, to have been so close and yet so far.

Hermione's progress back to the tower was a slow one, her footsteps weighed down with thoughts of what else they might have missed.

"Where've you been?" asked Ron, jumping up from his chair as she entered the common room. "We were about to send out a search party."

"I was talking to Brian Vector," said Hermione. "And then I went to the library."

Ron rolled his eyes and Hermione smacked his shoulder.

"I'll have you know, Ronald, that I found out some extremely interesting things," she said. "I now know, for example, the identity of our mysterious friend RAB."

Ron's jaw dropped open to such an extent that Hermione was worried about the number of airborne insects that might be congregating in there.

"You're joking," he finally managed to say. Hermione shook her head before settling herself in the empty chair beside Ron's and, tactfully editing Brian's story, beginning to tell them what she had learned.

* * *

**Note2: **Hope you enjoyed, and hope you liked Brian. He's slightly based off Brian in New Tricks. Anyway, fancy leaving a review for (very) old times' sakes?


	35. The Stars Behind the Clouds

**Note: **Ok, couple of things to clear up. Firstly, you'll notice that this is not a Monday update. It is a Tuesday update, and in future all updates will be Tuesday updates, namely because I will be suffering from Mondayitis on a Monday. Secondly, the idea of glamouring which I talked about last update has been around in fantasy novels for a while; Garth Nix didn't create it but it was in his works that I first came across it. Thirdly, ages ago I was talking about a German anthropologist and I said I'd find out who he was. Ok, his name's Michael Tomasello and he's not actually German, but his work is interesting nonetheless. Onwards to the chapters, or else the note will be longer than the update!

* * *

**Chapter Thirty-Five**

**The Stars Behind the Clouds**

It was one o'clock in the morning and the previous evening's lesson was at an end. Aurora Sinistra looked out over the Hogwarts grounds from the top of her astronomy tower, purposefully avoiding glancing at the sky. Oh, how she longed for the days when all she had to do was look to the heavens for the solutions to her problems. Now, it seemed that all the stars were hidden beyond the clouds that had set in after Professor Dumbledore's death and showed no signs of wanting to lift. How could she be expected to teach when her pupils couldn't even see the celestial bodies to which she alluded? Aurora was at her wits' end with the blasted weather, and not for the first time she considered trying to control it. She could create small pockets in the cloud cover through which her classes could focus their telescopes, but the effects only lasted for a few minutes. The weather was one thing that witches and wizards preferred to leave to take its own course, lest their meddling have unexpected side-effects. Aurora vaguely remembered the cautionary tale of an Australian wizard who had cast a spell to summon rain in the middle of a drought, only for the precipitation to continue unrelenting for the next thirty-three years.

Aurora pulled herself away from the thought, as tempting as it was. She focussed on the twinkling lights of Hagrid's hut – what was he doing up at such an hour? She sighed and let her shoulders droop. On the one hand, her nocturnal existence was a blessing. With very little in the way of interruptions, Aurora had always felt herself the master of her domain, a true queen of the night. On the other hand, it could be incredibly lonely. It was not often that Aurora felt the need for companionship – her isolated life had taught her to cope without it – but when she did, it was often hard to come by in the small hours. She was just about to go back inside the castle with the intention of pouring out her woes to Hagrid when a voice stopped her and made her jump.

"Morning, Rora."

Aurora turned and saw Bathsheba standing in the doorway enveloped in an outsize multicoloured scarf.

"I didn't hear you come up, Bathsheba," she said.

"I'd be amazed if you had," the older witch replied. "You've been in a dreamworld for the past six weeks." She came up beside Aurora and shivered. "It's a cold night to be standing out here doing nothing."

"I don't feel it."

It was true. Aurora was so used to the cooler temperatures of the night that it took a lot to make her feel the cold.

"Maybe it's just my old bones," said Bathsheba. The two witches remained in silence for the next few minutes until the ancient runes professor spoke again.

"What's eating you, Rora?"

Aurora turned and leaned back on the railing, closing her eyes.

"You can read people as easily as you read one of your ancient texts, can't you? How's the knitting coming along?"

"It's a well known fact that I can, and we're talking about you, not me."

There was a pause.

"It's all so real," said Aurora finally with a sigh. "I mean, all this business with Septima really hammers it home. Nowhere is safe. Not even Hogwarts. We're still here, limping along, but it's not going to be long before we're completely overrun."

It felt good to talk, Aurora would admit that much. She could almost feel the worries lifting off her shoulders as she gave them voice. Bathsheba was a patient and sympathetic listener, nodding in all the right places and never butting in with critique or commentary that would have been, at this stage, both unwanted and unwarranted. If Aurora didn't get everything off her chest in one go then it would simply continue to build up until she was on the verge of throwing herself over the railings of her own tower.

"And then there's Severus," she said at last. "I just can't understand what he's doing. He's like a ghost in bat's clothing; I've seen him about three times since the beginning of term and I'm certain that it has nothing to do with our living through opposing times of the day. Where is the man?"

She stopped, finally having come to the end of her tirade, and she waited for Bathsheba to say something. For a long time the older witch remained silent, fingering at the ends of the scarf that, Aurora realised, was not a scarf at all but her latest knitting project, the needles glittering in the obscured moonlight.

"I think that Severus is an enigma," she said finally. "I think he's on his own side, playing both adversaries for his own ends. Don't ask me quite what he hopes to achieve with such a methodology," she added hastily, "but I'm certain that there's something going on that we aren't aware of. He's hiding something, that much is for certain."

"The fact he's a heartless murderer, perhaps," muttered Aurora sourly.

"No," said Bathsheba, her voice matter-of-fact. "We all know that already, he doesn't need to hide it. No, this is definitely something else. Related, perhaps, but not what you're thinking of."

Aurora was not quite sure if this declaration was meant to mollify her or make her more wary.

"As for Septima, Poppy says that she is going to make a full recovery." Bathsheba laughed softly. "I think we might have finally managed to convince Brian that it wasn't all his fault."

"The last I heard, he was apologising for the forty-eighth time."

"Forty-ninth," corrected Bathsheba. "Numbers are very important to Septima and Brian. Dear me. Brian's a good chap; he means well but…" She shook her head in mock despair as she pulled a ball of wool out of the bag slung across her shoulder and began to work out a knot in the black and orange speckled yarn. "Men. They're a liability, especially when you put two or more of them together."

Aurora allowed herself a small smile. She had heard that Filius and Horace's attempts to console Septima's distraught husband had not ended particularly well. Her thoughts turned to the staffroom and the way that the teachers seemed to naturally gravitate towards and away from each other. Although it was rare for Aurora to be in the staffroom at the same time as anyone other than during the weekly staff meeting, she knew its ins and outs. Aurora herself naturally gravitated towards Charity, her equal in age and teaching experience, and the menfolk (there had always seemed to be less wizards than witches on the staff) had a tendency to group together, perhaps working on the principle of strength in numbers should their female co-workers turn hostile. She found herself coming back to Severus, and wondered where he fitted in to the equation. He had always been on the outside, an observer rather than a participant, just like Bathsheba was. It could be no coincidence that they were both so extraordinarily good at reading people; years of practice in the staffroom had taught them to analyse ever-changing relationships.

Speak of the Devil… Aurora caught movement in the shadows of the tower and she froze as she realised that it was Severus standing in the doorway, watching the two witches with calculated interest. The astronomy professor held more than a little bit of fear for the man himself, but her main unease at that precise moment was that she had no idea how to react to his presence. Her gut instinct was telling her to run as far as she could in the opposite direction, but what she retained of her fighting spirit told her to attack him with as much force as she could muster. Yet another part of her could not help but recall Bathsheba's words, spoken but a few moments previous. He was such a completely unreadable character.

"Relax Rora," said Bathsheba next to her without looking up from the wool. "You and I aren't important enough to be assassinated."

"But…"

"Professor Sinistra, Professor Babbling." Severus chose that moment to make his presence formally known, stepping out of the tower and into the little observation area, although still keeping a respectful distance from his colleagues. Aurora's eyes never left him as he moved, watching his every measured step, but Bathsheba seemed far more interested in a particularly tricky knot in the yarn rather than the fact that they were alone at the top of the tallest tower with the man who had killed their leader in this very spot. Either the ancient runes professor had a death wish, or she truly trusted that Severus was not out for their blood.

"What brings you here at such an hour, Severus?" asked Bathsheba, and Aurora was glad that her older friend had taken the initiative to speak since her tongue was as frozen in place as the rest of her.

"I could ask you the same question, Bathsheba," he replied. "It is a cold night to begin the practice of a new art, don't you think?"

Bathsheba did not reply immediately, instead placing the at-last-untangled yarn back into her bag and turning to face their intruder, regarding him sagely over the top of her spectacles. It was only then that Aurora realised why Bathsheba could retain her calm in his presence. She had taught Severus during his time as a Hogwarts student, and the image that she always retained of him was of a thirteen-year-old sitting in her class for the first time. It was always said that the past was a dangerous weapon, and Bathsheba had seen an awful lot of past in her many years with the school.

"Not everything we do is for an obvious reason, Severus."

The sentence was part statement and part unspoken challenge. Severus paused in thought for a moment before visibly conceding to Bathsheba's stern wisdom.

"Indeed it is not, Bathsheba."

He came a step closer then, his movements still slightly wary, and it dawned on Aurora that he was just as uneasy as she was. Whilst she feared his presence, he feared her reaction to his presence, and all the while, Bathsheba observed this delicate ballet in her inimitable manner. Presently the ancient runes teacher spoke aloud.

"What are you hiding, Severus?"

It was such a blunt and obvious question that Aurora was startled. Surely he would not freely give up such information.

He produced a bottle from under his cloak and Aurora had to laugh that the question and its answer had pertained to something so simple. Somehow, the girlish giggle defused the taut atmosphere slightly.

"I thought you might appreciate something to lift your spirits. The conditions are hardly suited to stargazing," he added pointedly on seeing Aurora's eyebrow raise of its own accord, "and I noticed that you were still up here an hour after your class had finished."

Aurora shivered at the thought; she did not need to ask how he knew. One could see the astronomy tower clearly from the Hogwarts gates. Anyone who had apparated as far as the boundaries would allow and was making their way inside would have seen her staring out like Juliet waiting for Romeo. She purposefully pushed her mind away from that singularly scary thought and she looked at the bottle as Bathsheba, ever practical, drew glasses out of mid-air and began to pour.

Severus took a sip of the amber spirit first, perhaps a conscious act to prove to the witches that he meant no harm in the strange gesture of goodwill. Aurora could not make sense of it. Why would he suddenly do such a thing? Was it an attempt to make peace with her after what had occurred in her tower in July? 'I'm sorry I murdered the headmaster in your domain, here, have some whiskey to compensate?' No, that was too crass, too awkward, too blatantly inappropriate. It was not like Severus. For as long as she had known him, the Slytherin had always been subtle. Aurora viewed it more as a token of acceptance, neither a denial nor an apology, a simple statement of the status quo – for as long as it took, they were going to have to get along with each other for the good of the school.

Aurora took a sip, and although she had not particularly felt the cold beforehand, the whiskey warmed her from the inside out. She thought about the irony of the situation. In any other circumstances, she and Bathsheba and Severus would not be enjoying a quiet drink in the middle of the night at the top of the astronomy tower, but something unspoken meant that these were not normal circumstances. They were being civil to each other instead of resorting to mindless violence, and it was because of the venerated establishment in which they stood. Bathsheba had said at the beginning of the year that it was essential for the staff to band together against the influences of You-Know-Who; ostensibly against Severus. Severus, who could have made the school's downfall so terribly quick and so terribly easy, and yet, he was the one who was keeping it strong and keeping it alive; his general absence allowing the others to function as normally as they could.

For the first time since the terrible incident of the previous summer, Aurora began to look at the defence professor in a slightly new light. She still did not trust him; how could she after everything that had happened? But something in his manner suggested to her that, at heart, he was first and foremost a Hogwarts teacher as opposed to taking a specific side. She thought once more of Bathsheba's words, of the something that was going on without their knowledge and of the something that Severus was hiding. She had never yet had cause to doubt the wise old witch, and she was not about to start doing so now. As they continued to drink in silence, Aurora noticed a small pocket of sky open up through the cloud cover, finally allowing her to see the stars that had always been the driving force in her life.

Something was happening, something that neither she nor Bathsheba, nor Severus in all probability, could hope to control. They were all pawns in a far higher, far greater game, and when the time came they would have to play their part. Until that time came, however, Aurora was content with the status quo. Whether it was true thought or alcohol speaking, she didn't know, but the astronomy professor finally felt at peace for the first time since July. It was strange to think that adding more mystery to the turmoil of her existence had had such a tranquilising effect. Aurora shrugged. That was the way that Hogwarts worked, and for as long as she could, she would strive to keep it that way.

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**Note2: **And onwards!


	36. Mad Enough to Try

**Note: **Second part of today's triple bill (you lucky people), and a brief soiree with the Order now. No, I haven't forgotten them! They're still out there, searching for horcruxes without much success, but someone's had a breakthrough…

* * *

**Chapter Thirty-Six**

**Mad Enough to Try**

The Order of the Phoenix, despite its existence having been dogged with disaster from the very inception, despite having lost its leader and many of its most valued members and allies was, contrary to whispered opinion, still very much alive and well. The morale of the group, however, was not quite so steadfast, and whilst it had been waning gradually since the night of Dumbledore's death, this deterioration had become ever more rapid after the third horcrux had been found at Hogwarts by the very people who weren't supposed to be looking for it.

This situation, however, had not put off Bill Weasley. As a trained cursebreaker, he was used to danger. One could say that he lived for it, although recent werewolf encounters might have tempered his enthusiasm for such escapades slightly. All the same, Bill was determined not to be got down by his doom-mongering colleagues. It was to this end that he had continued to research the possible locations of the remaining horcruxes, going about his task in a logical and methodical manner. After a good few weeks of theorising, he had finally come up with a solution, although he was not quite sure whether the rest of the Order were going to be up to acting upon the said solution. It was, by no stretch of the imagination, extremely dangerous and would probably be fruitless. There was a very small chance of success, so small that it was virtually non-existent, but exist it did and therefore Bill decided that he was going to focus on the possible merits of his plan rather than the numerous disadvantages.

He apparated straight into the Order's latest meeting place, traditional wizarding etiquette having been suspended in favour of heightened security measures. After the Ministry had fallen and the Burrow had been attacked, the Order had shunned a permanent headquarters and taken to meeting in various different places that were determined by coded message a few hours before the conference was due to take place. As long as they didn't use the same place twice in a row, they were fairly certain of not being detected.

Bill was the last expected member to arrive, the others were already sitting around the meeting table on makeshift chairs made from upturned boxes, and Lupin rose to cast the customary protection charms once Bill was safely seated. The candles that served to light the room did very little in the way of providing heat, and the Order's breath was rising as a misty cloud in the chill November air. Today's meeting place was the cellar of Ollivander's all-but-abandoned shop in Diagon Alley. After the wandmaker had recovered from his incarceration at the hands of the Death Eaters, he had decided to cut his losses and leave the country for a while, loaning the use of his premises to the Order for as long as they needed a safe house. There was not much in the cellar; the marauding Death Eaters who had kidnapped its owner had made easy work of the stock, but there was space and debris enough to hold a decent meeting. Bill looked around at his fellow members, performing a mental head-and-limb count to check that everyone was more or less unharmed since the last time he saw them. His father was there, looking rather tired but otherwise healthy; then Remus and Tonks, Hestia, Kingsley and Elphias Doge. McGonagall was unable to leave the school and the other members were tied up with various important tasks, the full extent of which Bill was not sure of. They all looked much the same as the last time that he had seen them, only perhaps slightly more worn and put upon. The stress of this seemingly interminable war was getting to them, that much was perfectly clear. The problem was the waiting. That was the real killer. You-Know-Who was taking his time, watching them sweat, no doubt hoping for them to break from the inside out without his having to lift a finger. Oh, he'd strike eventually. He'd get them at their lowest ebb, when victory would be quicker, easier and sweeter, knowing that he had caused them to bring about their own demise.

As determined as the Order were for such a situation never to occur, they could not help but notice the steady and sly march of the darkness into the everyday life. Legislation was being passed like nothing the world had seen before; never had the judicial system worked so ruthlessly efficiently. On top of it all, people were still disappearing, muggles were still being murdered without specified reason and the community was still being quietly terrorised. Bill thought about his own mother. From all the accounts he had heard and from the few times that he had spoken to her in person, she had not left their safe house since they had moved into it. Darkly, Bill wondered if she would ever leave it again.

The meeting began in earnest at that point and Bill was thankful for its intervention, dragging him out of his self-destructive spiral of thoughts and refocusing his mind on his latest findings. He was anxious to present them to the rest of the group but at the same time he didn't want to get everyone's hopes up only for someone to point out a fatal flaw in his plan and them ending up back at step one. He listened patiently to the others' reports, a frazzled Hestia leaving early to get back to her protection duties, looking after important muggles and the families of influential muggle-borns. Bill wondered whether Hermione's parents knew that they were being watched. Hestia and her team were really stretched far too thinly across the country, but the stoic little witch was loath to let anyone into her circle lest they turn out to be untrustworthy. She struggled on, the satisfaction she got from knowing that her unwitting charges were still in one piece at the end of another day being worth the inconvenience.

Lupin reported that all possible negotiations with the werewolves had completely broken down, Greyback's influence being far too great amongst the lupine community. Whether it was through awe or fear, the wolves would be following the dark side of the moon. They'd surmised as much a long time ago, but it was still a worrying thought to know that all their possible supernatural and inhuman alliances were really no longer possible.

"Bill," said his father eventually. "You said you thought you had something regarding the… things."

Bill found it funny that the pieces of You-Know-Who's soul which they sought could have such an influence akin to their owner. Ever since Harry had first delegated the task of their location to the Order, the items had been known simply as 'things' or 'you-know-whats'. As strange as he found it, Bill knew that he did the same thing himself.

"I've been thinking about possible locations," he said. "After all, he's not likely to hide them anywhere. Look at where they've been found so far – they were either places of personal importance or entrusted with a valued member of his inner circle. On top of that, wherever the hiding place is, it's got to be _fairly_ well protected. So after much thought, I came to a conclusion that had been staring me in the face." He paused. "Where's the safest place in the wizarding world?"

The others looked at him blankly for a moment before realisation dawned on them. Tonks broke into a grin.

"Gringotts," she said. "You think he's hidden one in Gringotts?"

Bill shrugged.

"It's worth a try," he said. "You can't get much better protected than the highest security vaults at the bank."

"Does You-Know-Who even have a Gringotts account?" asked Lupin doubtfully. "It's not the sort of thing you ever think about, evil wizards making withdrawals."

"He's got an account," said Bill. "He's definitely got one. The vault was frozen after the first war when he disappeared, no-one's been into it since, not even the goblins in charge of clearing out dead vaults."

What Bill did not let on was that he had seen that very vault when he had first begun working for Gringotts and he was receiving his training. When a vault was frozen, the goblins meant it literally. He had seen the block of ice that completely encapsulated the door and its jamb, goblin magic that he didn't have the slightest clue how to undo. No-one was going to be getting in and out of that vault in a hurry. Bill could still remember the involuntary shiver that he had given on seeing the smoking tendrils wafting from the ice and cooling the surrounding air to an almost freezing point. The sight had remained with him vividly ever since.

"Even so," he continued, coming into the part of his plan that he was not quite so sure of. "I don't think it would be in there anyway."

"Why not?" asked Tonks.

"Because it's standard practice to empty the vaults of the 'dead' if there's no Will," said Bill. "You-Know-Who didn't know that his vault would be frozen; and although he could perhaps manipulate the goblins whilst he was around to do the manipulating, they held no fear of him after his supposed death. Well, a little, enough to freeze the vault rather than empty it. But You-Know-Who couldn't guarantee that. No, I think it'll be in someone else's vault."

"But if it was in someone else's possession and they didn't know what it was, then isn't there more chance of it going astray?" asked Kingsley. "I mean, look at the diary."

Bill grimaced involuntarily, not wanting to be reminded of the dread item that had almost cost his sister her life.

"That's true," he said, "that's why it couldn't be in just any one of the Death Eaters' protection." He pulled out a scrap of parchment. "I made a shortlist, but I keep coming back to one name. It'd have to be a very old familial vault: they've got the best protection and the most junk to hide it in amongst. And it would have to be someone he really trusted above all the others."

"I think I know where you're headed," said Lupin grimly. "Bellatrix Lestrange."

Bill nodded.

"It makes sense, I suppose," said Tonks drily. "I swear she was insane before Azkaban, and it's common knowledge that she's You-Know-Who's performing monkey. If he said 'hey, Bellatrix, take care of this thing that I'm not going to tell you what it is for me', I have no doubt that she'd do it without questioning."

The others laughed, but they all knew that the young auror's words were chillingly true.

"So what do you suggest?" asked Kingsley. "I know that you work for the bank but I doubt that they'd let you walk in and make a random withdrawal from the highest security vaults."

It was Bill's turn to grin, his expression masking the unease he felt with what he was about to suggest.

"I wasn't thinking of making a _legitimate_ withdrawal," he said. "I thought that a more clandestine approach might be in order."

The others looked at him in a stunned silence for a moment.

"You're suggesting we break into Gringotts," said Tonks faintly.

"In short, yes," said Bill.

"You're suggesting we break into Gringotts," she repeated.

Elphias looked at him. The wizard was easily the eldest member of the party, but his age did not in any way reflect a declining mental state. He found it rather advantageous to play up to the expected stereotype of his being a deaf and doddering fool; the amount of information he had found out because people dismissed his presence as non-threatening was really quite remarkable.

"Well, if you're mad enough to try then I'm certainly mad enough to go along with you," he said.

"But!" Tonks began to interrupt, but Elphias ignored her.

"I think, given your knowledge of the bank, we might have more chance of success than any other would be thieves," he continued. "Do you know which side the goblins will ally themselves with?"

Bill nodded, a little unsurely.

"The goblins are fairly neutral in the general scheme of things. True, they have a magic of their own that is a powerful advantage for anyone in the middle of a war, but they know the true value of things and as such they are not easily bought or threatened. Gringotts is a formidable institution, but it's not one of the big three. Money is and always has been money, that can't be changed whoever's in charge. It's not as strategically important for anyone to have a hold over the bank, not like a hold over the Ministry or Hogwarts. Funds are advantageous, but if you can't use them then there's no point. " He paused. "Whilst I doubt we shall be betrayed by any goblins in that sense, they don't do anything for nothing. They'll wait till the price is right. They may help us, but they'll expect something in return, something we probably do not have to give. The goblins will give their services to the highest bidder."

"Well, let's hope that we can give them something that the other side can't," said Lupin. "Either that, or we trust ourselves enough to break in without insider assistance."

Bill shook his head.

"That wouldn't work. The carts only respond to the goblins and it's impossible to try and get through the cavern system on foot, much less get to the vault we want and out again. I've had a few ideas though. The goblins' financial year begins on the second of January. It's the only day of the year when the bank is fully closed, because they have to take a mass audit. Lots of hustle and bustle, carts flying all over the place, everyone paying attention to the numbers and not much else."

"Won't a bunch of shifty-looking wizards stick out like a sore thumb in the midst of a bank full of goblins?" asked Tonks.

"That's where the plan falls down slightly," admitted Bill. "But Fleur and I've been working on it. We're thinking that a series of small distractions might draw them away from the bigger picture long enough for some hitch-hiking to take place."

As Bill began to detail the finer points of their makeshift plan, he felt his confidence with it grow exponentially. On the face of it, there was a strong chance that they were going to attempt the impossible. It was probably one of the world's worst ideas ever, but it was the only shred of a clue that they had. Even if they managed to get into the vault, they had no idea what they were looking for once they got there, and there was always the chance that Bill's theory would come to nothing and that the 'thing' was indeed hidden in the frozen vault, or that it was not in Gringotts at all.

But if there was one thing that could be said for the Order, it was definitely mad enough to try.

* * *

**Note2: **And onwards once more! We're coming up to Christmas now. Yay! I was determined to have C&I Christmas up before real-life Easter but… that's probably not going to happen.


	37. Moment des Zwischenseins

**Note: **Final part of today's update. I was challenged by a friend to get the German phrase ‚Moment des Zwischenseins' into C&I somewhere. I'm afraid I got a bit carried away.

**Note2: **This chapter takes place, in part, in Kiel where I currently live. Should any of my readers happen to find themselves lost in Kiel, I can give you the complete C&I tour of the city. I can show you Finn and Mareike's respective childhood homes, I can show you where Finn proposed, you name it. I have spent far too much time thinking up a back story for this couple.

* * *

**Chapter Thirty-Seven**

**Moment des Zwischenseins**

"_Glühwein und heißer Butterbier!"_

„_Lebkuchen! _Freshly baked_ Lebkuchen!"_

Mareike Rowle wandered listlessly around the Wizard's Christmas Market of her birth town, unable to truly concentrate on her surroundings when her mind was miles away, in a different country with her husband. She had only come along this evening after her little sister had pleaded, her pouting face in the flames of the Floo connection proving too beguiling for Mareike to say no. She shook her head sadly; Susie had always been able to wrap her doting older sister around her little finger with a well-placed wobbling lip and a few choice words.

"But it's our tradition!" she had whined earlier. "Every year we go to the first evening of the _Weihnachtsmarkt_ and eat gingerbread. We can't not go just because there's a war on! Besides, Papa's out tonight and I'm _bored_!"

It was one of the most ridiculous-sounding arguments that Mareike had ever heard, but as usual, Susie was right. Why should she let fear win out? Why shouldn't she enjoy the Christmas Market like she had done every year for as long as she could remember? A few minutes of Susie's wheedling later and, possibly against her better judgement, Mareike found herself hurtling through the international Floo network and into her sister's ecstatic arms. For a few hours, it had been as if she had never been away, as if she had never left Germany. The two sisters had laughed and talked non-stop, and no-one who heard them would have guessed that they were twenty-two and fifteen years of age respectively. But when the talk had, as it inevitably would, turned to Mareike's baby, she had found her happy mood slowly ebbing away as she was reminded of the ever more dangerous world that she had found herself in. Although it was true that the Dark Lord's influence had mostly poisoned Britain, the mood of fear and wariness was slowly spreading throughout Europe like a rash. The Christmas Market had never been so small or so dark; the black mood seemed to encompass the usually warm and cheerful wooden cabins completely. The footsteps in the snow were telling enough. People walked in straight lines to their destinations, working methodically from one stall to the next, buying their wares and moving on. They did not linger leisurely and take part in the old traditions of bargaining and talking with the stallholders. She had noticed that even she and Susie were doing it, however unconsciously, walking down the centre of the street and casting only cursory looks at the stalls on either side of them. Presently Susie fed her a piece of iced gingerbread that she had been picking to pieces and throwing to the birds without any intention of eating. The cake was hard and bland, not enough spice for Mareike's taste.

"_Naja, _I can do better," she muttered. Susie, whose rambling patter had since fallen into silence, smiled weakly and threw the last of the gingerbread to a nearby seagull, narrowly avoiding concussing the bird with it.

"Mari," she said suddenly, "I'm scared." She paused. "For you, I mean. Tell me you're safe, Mari. Tell me you aren't scared."

Mareike wished that she could. She wished that she could reassure the little sister who was still a child in her eyes. But she could not. She wasn't safe, she had not been safe since the moment that the Dark Lord had first set eyes on her, and she knew that her pregnancy had done nothing to make her any more secure. To the Dark Lord and his most bloodthirsty followers, nothing was sacred, not even an unborn child. But, in that precise moment, Mareike could not say that she was scared. She felt frustrated, uneasy, yes, but fear, despite its being all around her, did not enter her thoughts. The best way in which Mareike could describe her feelings was _heavy_. It was as if she was standing still, weighted to the ground both physically and mentally by the being growing inside her. Meanwhile, everything was moving around her in a panicked fear. She was a passive observer, unable to affect the fear in the world around her and unaffected by it herself. This, reflected Mareike, was her _Moment des Zwischenseins. _Her mother had always told her that she would have one at one point in her life. A moment of being in between, a moment of between-being… It didn't translate into English very well, as Mareike had found out when she had tried to explain the concept to an increasingly confused Camilla. A moment in which she was detached, free, numb. A once in a lifetime experience, never to be repeated.

"I'm not scared," she told Susie firmly. "I'm in between."

Susie looked at her with an expression that conveyed plainly that she was of the opinion that her sister had gone completely mad, but then she broke off into a smile.

"_Moment des Zwischenseins,"_ she murmured, and they walked on through the market in silence for a while, each sister lost in her own thoughts, illuminated by the soft and twinkling lights that hovered overhead. They were so much prettier than the muggles' crass electric equivalent, but they were no more effective at banishing the shadows that almost seemed to be alive. Mareike tried to shake off the feeling of being watched. It was one that had been pursuing her for the past few months with a dogged persistence, and she was sure that her paranoia was reaching ridiculous lengths.

"Do you think I'll find mine?" asked Susie. "It always seems like such an impossible notion."

"I'm sure you will," said Mareike drily. "When you're nearly six months pregnant in the middle of a war and married to a man who's unwillingly fighting for the wrong side."

"Yes…" Susie paused. "When you put it like that it doesn't sound quite as appealing."

The two young women collapsed into giggles again and the momentary unease came to an end as Susie launched into a rather expressive account of a tale from school and ended up showering a passerby with punch thanks to her over-exuberant arm gestures. Once the scalded wizard had been pacified (Susie was all for pushing him into a nearby snowdrift to cool him off), the dead of night had well and truly fallen, the stalls closing their shutters and packing up their wares ready for the next day's trading. Mareike's feet were beginning to ache and she found herself longing for her comfortable footstool by the fire in Camilla's little sitting room. Susie seemed to sense her sister's change of demeanour, and steered them in the direction of home and the way back to England. The older witch wondered, as Susie fumbled with her keys, whether she would ever find where she truly belonged. For her, Germany had always been her home. There had never been any question. She had always viewed her move across the channel as something wholly temporary, and that as-yet-unset date in the future when she would return to Germany was the thing that kept her holding on throughout the most difficult times. But now… Mareike's gloved hand went to her stomach unconsciously. Now there was the baby, something that linked her solidly and intrinsically to England. Their child had been conceived there (Mareike blushed to be even thinking about such things in the presence of her impressionable younger sister), and unless something short of a miracle happened, it would be born there too. It was something that couldn't be ignored.

"Thanks for coming," said Susie as they stood by the fireplace. "It would have been a shame to break with tradition and…" She paused, ringing her hands nervously. "It was good to check that you're ok." A devilish grin spread over her face. "I'm going to be the worst auntie ever. I'll spoil your pumpkin rotten."

"You'll do nothing of the sort," said Mareike sternly. "For a start, you hate children."

"Not _your_ children," said Susie, rolling her eyes. "I'll like yours because we can conspire and plot against you together." Her mischievous smile was infectious, and a welcome change from the melancholy demeanour that she had sunk into at the market. It was true that one always felt safer and happier within one's own home, and Mareike wished that she knew where hers was. As lovely and welcoming as both Camilla and her own family were, she craved a place that she could truly call her own in which to make their home. When she had married Finn, she had gone straight from her parents' house to his parents' house; they had not had any time alone to build a home. It needn't cost the Earth nor be particularly grand; just a cosy cottage where they could live in peace and quiet and bring up their baby as far away from the evils of this bleak and uncertain world as possible.

"You should go," said Susie presently, dragging her older sister out of her comfortable daydream. "Get tucked up snugly and make Finn massage your feet."

Although a smile graced Susie's face, Mareike knew that she was just as despondent about their parting as she was.

"I could always stay a few days," she suggested tentatively. Susie shook her head.

"No, I think it's better if you go and keep an eye on Finn. He needs you, Mari."

The depth of insight in this deceptively simple statement astounded Mareike, coming as it did from her usually so happy and carefree sister. It was undeniable.

"Besides," Susie continued. "If, God forbid, something happens, we aren't really in a position to assist, more's the pity. Papa would faint at the thought and I can't do anything remotely useful without sending up a flare to the big cheeses in Berlin saying 'yes! I'm here! I'm only fifteen and I'm doing magic outside school!'"

Mareike laughed as she stepped into the fireplace. Her mother had always been the sensible one of her parents, her father having a tendency to keel over at the merest thought of pain, be it his own or someone else's. He'd spent the entirety of Susie's birth lying on the sofa with a cold flannel on his forehead and a cup of chamomile tea.

Just as she was about to throw the powder into the grate, Susie spoke again.

"Try not to have the baby just yet," she said. "I haven't finished knitting."

"Don't be ridiculous, Susie. You can't knit."

"Exactly! I need time to learn!"

"You've already had five months!"

"I'm a slow learner!"

Mareike raised her eyes to heaven.

"Bye Susie. Give my love to Papa when he gets in. _Tschuss_."

"_Tschuss." _ Susie blew her a kiss as she disappeared into the swirling green flames, and Mareike was still smiling as she toppled out of the grate into Camilla's sitting room. She cast a spell to clean the soot from her robes and looked around at the place she could not quite call home.

"Did you have a good time?" asked Camilla, looking up from her book and absently chewing the leg of her glasses. Mareike nodded, sitting down heavily in her chair and letting her feet recover.

"It was good to see Susie again," she said. "I miss her."

She was acutely aware of the fact. They had never been soul sisters, but the further apart they were, the more Mareike found that there was a hole somewhere in her middle that Susie's bubbly presence always seemed to fill.

"And the gingerbread?" Camilla ventured, a smile playing on her lips.

"Terrible, as always."

Before Camilla could reply, there was the sound of the front door slamming and frantic footsteps, followed by Finn's voice.

"MARI? MAREIKE?"

He had never sounded so desperately scared in all the time that Mareike had known him.

"I'm in here," she called, and Finn appeared in the sitting room doorway, as white as a sheet. He collapsed onto his knees in front of Mareike's chair.

"You're alright," he breathed, taking her face in his hands as if he wanted to make doubly sure that she was truly there and not a mirage.

"Yes, I'm alright _Schatz_," Mareike said shakily, his behaviour unnerving her. "Why wouldn't I be?" She gently pulled his hands away from her cheeks and held them tightly in her lap.

"He warned me…"

Mareike's grip on Finn's hands tightened involuntarily. The identity of 'he' needed no further clarification.

"He said you'd be getting an interesting surprise tonight; I thought the worst. Oh Mari, you're alright. You're alright."

"I'm alright _Schatz_," Mareike soothed. "I'm alright." Despite her calm appearance, however, Mareike's mind was in turmoil. Finn had been threatened, and it wasn't the first time. His master had often warned him that she, Mareike, was a 'dangerous distraction'. This was the first time that the threats had held anything concrete however, and Mareike knew that Finn's master always carried through on his threats. She had not received any surprises tonight, which meant that the worst was still to come. But surely she was safe here now that Finn was home? Mareike's brow furrowed, trying to make sense of it all.

All three occupants of the room started as the fireplace roared into brilliant emerald life and a face appeared in the flames, an unfamiliar face with an undeniable air of authority about it.

"Frau Camilla Rosier?" the man asked in a clipped German accent.

"Yes," said Camilla, her tone clearly expressing her puzzlement. "How can I help you?"

"My name is Heinrich Meier, German Ministry of Magic Auror Office. I was told that Frau Mareike Rowle is resident with you."

Camilla cast a worried glance back towards Mareike, who stood and took a deep breath before approaching the fireplace.

"I'm here," she said.

"Frau Rowle," Meier began, and in that moment, Mareike knew. She knew what the surprise was, and her blood ran cold. "Frau Rowle, I am sorry to have to inform you, but your father and sister…"

"They're dead, aren't they?" Mareike said softly.

Meier was silent for a moment and then nodded slowly.

"We were alerted by the use of underage magic in the area, but unfortunately we arrived too late. The Death Eaters had already left their mark. I am very sorry, Frau Rowle."

Mareike didn't hear him. She didn't hear Camilla deftly step in to take over the formalities. She didn't hear Finn's soft words as he pulled her gently to her feet and guided her back to her chair. She could only feel, a terrible wave of emotion that had been so strangely absent for the past five months. Susie. Her little sister, who only an hour ago had been enthusing over the mischief that she would get up to when she was an aunt. Her entire life had been snuffed out like a candle in a sudden gust. It was a warning, as loud and clear as if Meier had shouted it through the flames. Her family had been killed, and she would be next. It was a warning for Finn. Obey, or your wife joins her sister.

Mareike was only barely aware of the tears streaming uninhibited down her cheeks. She could feel the bitter vitriol rising in her throat like bile, the sheer, uncontrollable hatred that she felt towards the beast who had her and her husband tied like puppets on a string, controlling their lives so tightly and terribly. But she was feeling more than hatred. As Mareike finally gave in to her torment, collapsing against Finn with a howl of pure despair, she knew that her _Moment des Zwischenseins_ was over.

Mareike was terrified.


	38. Like Father, Like Son

**Note: **Just one chapter today, I'm afraid. I've been really busy this past week.

**Note2:** Let it be said that I never used to have any time for Draco and found him an exceedingly unsympathetic character, until I saw the sixth film and Tom Felton's performance. He managed to do what Rowling never managed to do, and that was make me feel for a character that up till then, I had always loved to loathe. So thanks to Mr Felton for inspiring me to try and get inside an extremely complicated head.

* * *

**Chapter Thirty-Eight**

**Like Father, Like Son**

Severus knew the identity of the silent presence hovering outside his slightly ajar office door without looking up. He had been expecting a visit from Draco Malfoy for some time now and it was fast becoming overdue. There was only so long that the boy could ignore Severus's presence in the castle, however hidden in the shadows that presence was. After he had tried so hard and to no great gain to keep his distance and muddle through on his own last year, Draco had visibly been in two minds about confiding in the professor. Severus could see it in his darting, nervous eyes every time their paths crossed.

He wondered at the great change that his student had undergone in just a few short years. When he had first crossed the threshold of the castle, he had been so sure, so arrogant, so seemingly at ease with everything if not everyone, attacking those he felt threatened by. He had been, in short, exactly like his father, and Severus knew that it could be no coincidence that the beginnings of Draco's comparatively sudden change of demeanour had come at the same time as Lucius's incarceration. In a way, the two Malfoy men were mirrors, the actions and emotions of one having an immediate, if indirect, effect on the other. As Lucius sank further and further into the well of cynical and wandless despair, so his son was also sliding along a slippery downwards slope, although perhaps without quite so much brandy. It was undeniable, however, that Draco was not and would probably never again be the same as he once was. He had lost the Malfoy pride that was so key to his existence; both he and Lucius had lost it having been reminded of their fragile state of being, and at that moment in time they simply could not afford to be proud. All that mattered now was their continued survival, no matter how dire the conditions thereof were. For as long as they still living, the Dark Lord could not hold the ultimate triumph over them.

After several minutes had passed and Severus became certain that Draco was not going to do anything of his own accord to announce his presence, he broke the silence himself, still without looking up from a particularly ludicrous first-year essay on the possible merits of wearing a tea cosy on one's head as a method of protection against legilimency.

"Come in, Draco," he said calmly, grimly striking through an entire paragraph with green ink. Contrary to lasting and popular perception of him, Severus did not exactly revel in criticising his student's efforts, he merely became exasperated when they made the same stupid mistakes over and over again and showed no desire to learn. It was no secret that Severus had never held any lasting yen to be a teacher in his youth, but now that he was one, the vocation had grown and enveloped him, and after so many years of experience he was as passionate about his craft and the imparting of knowledge to the next generation as any of the other staff members.

Finally, Severus dragged himself away from the essay before melancholia threatened to overwhelm him, and he looked at his younger visitor. Draco was standing by the door that he had closed behind him on entering, looking into the middle distance and chewing absently on a fingernail. This was something that Severus would never have expected the Draco of two years ago to do, and it was also another thing that he had in common with his father. Lucius, Severus knew from his schooldays, had always been a closet nailbiter, and if recent events were anything to go by, then Severus thought it highly likely that his older friend was living off a steady diet of cognac and keratin. He motioned for Draco to sit in the chair opposite him and found himself comparing the young blond to his maternal parent. Whilst in looks and mannerisms the boy took after Lucius, there was something in his personality that reminded Severus of Narcissa. After a moment of contemplation, he realised that it was fear. Narcissa was often felt by those who did not know her to be a highly-strung, uptight woman, and at first glance she was indeed tightly wound, but Severus knew that for the most part, this stemmed from nervousness. Having seen the way in which she had broken down when she had come to beg him for help the summer before last, and having seen the way that Draco had retreated into himself during that past year and even more so during the current one, Severus was more than a little inclined to say that mother and son shared this easily unnerved aspect of their personality.

"How can I help you, Draco?" Severus asked eventually, trying to prompt the boy into speaking and revealing his reasons for visiting the professor outside of normal teaching hours. He put down his quill and focused his full attention on his student, carefully reading his expressions and the telltale signs as to the directions that his thoughts were travelling in.

At length Draco spoke.

"It's nearly Christmas," he said, the statement so completely unrelated to anything that Severus had to shake his head slightly to check that he had heard correctly. It was indeed nearly Christmas, the past few months had passed in a blur as the castle settled into something of an uneasy normality. Whilst the school was not aware of the underlying nature of what had happened to Professor Vector at the beginning of November, there was no doubting that they knew 'something' was up, and that 'something' was unlikely to have a pleasant ending. Whilst no-one was labouring under the pretence that everything was perfectly fine, everyone was trying so desperately to keep going in spite of the increasingly bleak situation that was surrounding the castle and constantly baying at its closed doors. When something happened that reminded them that the castle was not really as impenetrable as they liked to think it, the mindset of the school as a whole was turned on its head as they remembered, however painfully, that it was only a matter of time.

"It's been four months," Draco continued, and at this point, Severus knew to what he was alluding. They had spent four months in an uneasy limbo, four months in which the Dark Lord had slowly taken over the country and made his malevolent presence felt in every corner of society except the one in which they now stood. They had spent the past four months waiting on tenterhooks for something, anything that would tell them when the attack against the school would come. It was an inevitable event, but they had not heard the slightest whisper, and this was unnerving Severus. From the direction that their stilted conversation was taking, it was unnerving Draco as well.

The boy took an unconscious glance around the room and then seemed to crumple, finally bowing to break under the pressure on his shoulders. For all his height and bearing, he suddenly looked very small, and Severus was reminded of the first-year he had once known, hiding behind a wall of biting bravado. Draco had been brought up to think himself superior to all the muggle-born and half-blood students, as was to be expected given his parentage, but when he had found that (academically speaking at the very least) he was not, hasty repair work in the form of general nastiness had been undertaken.

"I don't care what happens," he said at length. "I just want _something_ to happen. I can't stand this waiting, it's driving me mad." He paused, shaking his head, and his next sentence made Severus stop his reminiscent musings and pay complete and acute attention. "I don't want him here."

"Pardon?"

"I don't want him here, in Hogwarts," mumbled Draco, immediately looking as if he wished he could take this statement back. He straightened up, suddenly defensive, and his hands curled into fists where they had been resting on his knees. "For the past four months this is the only place I've felt remotely safe." He gave a sour laugh. "When you feel like a stranger in your own house you've got to have somewhere that you can nearly call home. If he comes here, takes over here, then I've got nowhere. When I'm at home, he's always there, even if he's not there." Draco gesticulated wildly, trying to explain his incoherent jumble of words. "You can still feel his influence, looking over your shoulder all the time."

Severus knew the feeling.

"And my parents are at home," Draco continued, staring off to the middle distance. Severus briefly wondered if his student really realised whether he was talking to Severus or not, and whether he thought of Severus in the same way that the other Death Eaters did – a not-quite-trustworthy but undoubtedly close lieutenant of the Dark Lord. As the head of his house, Severus had always been a listening post for worried and homesick Slytherins, including Draco. It was obvious that at some level, Draco still saw his teacher in this light, and at that moment in time, he didn't care about the possible consequences of confiding his misgivings in someone ostensibly so close to the master of which they spoke. He needn't have worried; Severus had no intention of passing on the details of the meeting. He waited patiently for Draco to speak again.

"All he has to do is threaten them and he knows I'll jump." There was undisguised bitterness in Draco's voice, "I'm safer here than I am at home. You never think you'll have to protect your own father."

Severus understood the root of the problem that Draco was half-explaining in a very roundabout way. After the events of the summer, Draco and Narcissa were now the family's final defence against the presence lurking in their house. Whilst Narcissa, like all mothers, was a formidable fighter whenever her brood was threatened, she was also comparatively unimportant in the Dark Lord's grander schemes. Draco, on the other hand, was a useful asset as both a marked member and an insider in Hogwarts, the final unattainable trophy. Naturally, it was Draco who was carrying the pressure, a pressure that he wanted nothing more than to be rid of. And Severus had no doubt that Draco would have rebelled sooner had he not feared the consequences. He knew that Draco had been having doubts about this new calling from the moment that he had received the mark. As Dumbledore had remarked at the end of the previous school year on the Astronomy tower, he had tried to avoid his destiny as much as he could.

But avoid it he could not. Severus thought briefly of Rowle and his slaughtered in-laws. There had not been the slightest hint of insubordination in his case and death had still followed in the wake; he dreaded to think what would happen to the Malfoys should Draco actively turn his back. He was under the Dark Lord's thumb completely, and like all people in his situation, he resented his helplessness.

Before he had time to offer any sort of advice or consolation, not that he could think of anything fitting at that point in time, Severus felt an all-too-familiar burn on his forearm. He raised an eyebrow slightly as Draco started in his seat having felt it too.

"Shall we?" he said, indicating the door and the way towards the perimeter boundary and the ability to apparate. Draco nodded reluctantly and they left the room. It was late in the evening and the castle was putting itself to bed; the few roaming final-years and ghosts that they encountered on their way through the building didn't comment on where the school's most suspicious professor and student were going so purposefully. Let them speculate all they liked, thought Severus. They were bound to come up with the correct conclusion sooner or later; after all, the Astronomy tower incident was no secret. Gossip had never yet caused physical wounds, and Severus was perfectly ready to ignore it.

They collided with the Bloody Baron in the entrance hall, and whilst the spectre said nothing, he looked at Draco through narrowed eyes, as if he were trying to read him and failing. The idea made Severus think of Draco's classmates and the sort of regard that they now held him in after everything that had happened. Fear was present, there was no doubt of that, but Severus was certain that despite this, Draco had lost respect amongst his peers in recent months. He had certainly seemed to be alone a lot more than he had been in previous years.

All too soon they found themselves staring up at the foreboding manor that Draco had not really been able to call home since the summer, the open door inviting them into a blackness that seemed to be darker every time Severus stared into it, as if the house itself was absorbing and reflecting the menaces that went on within its walls. As they stepped inside, Severus caught a glimpse of something pale disappearing into the shadows. It took his eyes a moment to get used to the lack of light as the door closed behind him and shut out what little moon there was on the cloudy night, but once they were, he saw the faintest tendrils of a patronus disappear into the ether, revealing Narcissa's face behind the fading swan pen. Severus felt that there had always been something tragic about swans, a tragedy that reflected Narcissa well. Protective, beautiful, loyal till the end, but somehow overwhelmed with sadness. He shrugged away the thought, putting it down to Swan Lake. Draco went over to his mother and they exchanged a few inaudible words before he disappeared into the drawing room that served as their base of operations. The similarities between mother and son were highlighted once more, and Severus found himself wondering what the future had in store for this family, seemingly doomed to remain in their vicious circle. He made to enter the drawing room but a hand caught his arm.

"You will look out for him, won't you? Please?" Narcissa's voice was unsure.

Severus nodded, unconsciously flexing the wrist that had been bound by her vow. Draco was the final barrier between his family and the Dark Lord, but it was a task that all parties knew he was not and never would be ready for. As he had said to Minerva at the beginning of the year, he was going to have to keep a very close eye on Draco to prevent his doing something irretrievable.

As he sat in his now-accustomed chair on the right hand side of the table, Severus wondered. They had truly passed the point of taking sides now. Draco and Narcissa did not care who he worked for as long as they could come to him for help. It had become a state of every man for himself. The insubordination had set in, and it was only a matter of time before the ranks that it infected crumbled under its influence. The only question that remained was a simple one. How long before the cataclysm occurred?

* * *

**Note3: **We're definitely nearing Christmas now! *Looks around at the bright April sunshine and shrugs.* I've said before that this story moves in arcs and I'm just reiterating that. We're coming up to a 'Death-Eater-Arc' at the moment. ( There will be brandy, there will be baked goods and there will be kilts...) Do not despair Harry and Minerva fans, we shall be back with them soon.


	39. Laughter and Lebkuchen

**Note:** I am back, after a long, long absence. I apologise folks. If you hadn't already got the news, I recently suffered not one but two serious falls and badly injured my dominant wrist, rendering me unable to type. I am almost fully recuperated now and I hope you enjoy the chapters after the long wait. This one is longer than usual. I was so happy at being able to type again that I think I went overboard.

**Note2: **Spot the Sweeney Todd reference… And my dig at the DH film make up crew.

* * *

**Chapter Thirty-Nine**

**Laughter and Lebkuchen**

Narcissa knew, without having to open her eyes, that this was not in any way going to be their happiest Christmas. How could it be with so many spectres dogging their existence? At that moment in time, remaining alive and on the right side of the malevolent presence haunting her house was far more important than festive celebrations. Narcissa hadn't bothered putting up any decorations this year, and no-one appeared to have missed them.

It would not, however, be their worst Christmas. That title would always be reserved for the previous year, the only Christmas that she and Lucius had spent apart in over twenty years of marriage. She still did not like to think of her waking up on that bleak and cold morning to be forcibly reminded of her husband's absence. This year, he was here, and Narcissa was certain that for this simple reason, the festive day would not be as miserable as the last one had been. Finally, she opened her eyes and found herself face-to-face with Lucius's back. She ran a finger down his spine, partly to wake him and partly to reassure herself that she had not slipped into madness and concocted an effective mental mirage out of despair and loneliness. When he made no response, she levered herself up on one elbow and peered over his shoulder, her long hair falling into his face.

"Are you awake?" she whispered.

"No. I'm fast asleep."

"Good, good. Maybe you'll wake up when I wish you Merry Christmas?"

"Screw Christmas."

Narcissa rolled her eyes and hovered for a moment, eventually coming to a sensible if unsatisfactory conclusion and kissing Lucius's cheek before dropping back onto her side of the bed. She stared up at the canopy over them, one that had been a blind witness to many things over the years. Oh, to be a young honeymooner once more…

She pushed the thoughts aside and decided that getting up was probably the best course of action. She had already heard Draco moving around the house quietly and she knew it was late in the morning already. In all honesty, Narcissa was not particularly bothered about the festive day itself this year, she simply wanted one day in which there were no unwelcome visitors and she could spend a few hours free from the biting fear and anger that had been building up inside her steadily since the summer, a few hours together with her family and no interruptions.

Whether her family was going to oblige her or not was a completely different matter. Once dressed, she stood on Lucius's side of the bed and stared at him pointedly.

"When you do decide to wake up, please shave. I know your world has been falling down around your ears for the past few months but you can still look presentable whilst it's happening."

Having succeeded in eliciting a snort of laughter from her husband, Narcissa left the room and padded through the house. Even at the height of the day, it was still forebodingly dark within the ancient walls. She had never before been at all fazed by this, but now she found herself jumping at shadows with increasing regularity. She was just contemplating a particularly interesting corner and reassuring herself that there was nothing hidden therein when the door knocker sounded unexpectedly and she had to stop herself shrieking in alarm at the sudden noise. Once composed, she made her way down the stairs, her shock giving way to slowly building ire. She had barely had time to get started and the uninvited guests whom she wanted nothing more than to avoid were on the doorstep. She wondered who could be calling at such a time on such a day, and the more she contemplated, the more nervous she became, so she finally came to the conclusion that simply opening the door would be better for all parties involved.

Narcissa opened the door a tiny fraction and peered around it, coming face to face with a familiar mischievous smile and a mass of bright red curly hair.

"Only us," said Carmen Macnair. "Merry Christmas."

Carmen's face disappeared from the gap and was replaced with a bottle of wine.

"Some consolation, I know, but it'll make up in part for all the stock that this one's managed to drink this year."

"Oi!" Walden's voice sounded offended. "I haven't drunk _that_ much!"

Narcissa took the door fully and opened the bottle, allowing her guests in out of the cold weather. Whilst unexpected, they were certainly not unwelcome. Carmen was one of Narcissa's oldest friends, and she could generally be counted upon to put a bright spin on even the bleakest of days. But, as her flame-haired companion shed her cloak and pulled her damp, wind-swept ringlets out of her face, Narcissa had to concede that Carmen was showing her age just as much as the rest of them in these strenuous times.

"It's good to see you still in one piece, Cissy," said Carmen presently, reaffixing her smile in place and pulling Narcissa into a warm hug. "Can the same be said of the rest of your household?"

"Hmm." Narcissa nodded slowly, breaking away and leading them through the house. "Draco is still shaken from everything that's happened this year, but he's well. When I last saw Lucius, he was determined to ignore Christmas for as long as physically possible. Somehow though, I think that it will find him despite his pathetic attempts at hiding from it under the pillow."

Narcissa opened the door to the sitting room at this point and Draco came over to greet the newcomers.

"Merry Christmas."

Carmen looked around the room, opened her mouth to say something and then thought better of it with a slight shake of her head, focussing her attention on returning Draco's well-wishes. Narcissa knew that she was about to pass comment on the lack of tree, and of festive adornments in general. Christmas was always important to Carmen and Walden, perhaps more important than any other time of the year, and Narcissa put this down to the fact that they had been married on Christmas Eve. Not celebrating the festive season simply did not compute in Carmen's mind, no matter how dire the circumstances. She slipped out of the room, leaving Draco to play host, and headed up the next flight of stairs to try and elicit some sort of coherent response from her husband. As expected, he had not moved from where she had left him.

Narcissa waved her wand and the covers flew off the bed. Lucius responded by throwing a pillow at her, falling a few feet short.

"I could make some exceedingly terrible jokes about your aim, but I won't. We have guests, Lucius, and I think they'd appreciate your presence. In spite of everything and your personal beliefs notwithstanding, you are still the master of this house."

"Are the guests ones that are likely to kill me?"

"They might do if you don't get your act together and come down to wish them a happy silver wedding anniversary for yesterday. It's Carmen and your partner in cellar-raiding crime. I am not moving until you get up, you know. There is to be no Christmas sulking on my watch. Well, that and the fact Carmen might come and do something to get you out of bed." Narcissa paused for a moment. "On second thoughts, I might let her. It would certainly make things interesting."

"Alright, alright, I'm getting up."

Narcissa gave a satisfied smile and returned to her guests.

"Success?" asked Carmen. Narcissa nodded and her friend raised an eyebrow but made no comment. She waved her wand and a heavy, red leather-bound book appeared on her lap. As she turned the first page, Narcissa recognised the first photo. It was Carmen's wedding dress, snow-white with a fur collar and a sash made from the entwined tartans of her family and Walden's. No doubt her friend had had an attack of nostalgia the previous day.

"The real reason I wanted to come…"

"Note the use of the singular," interrupted Walden. "I would have been perfectly content to stay in bed."

"… was that I found the most brilliant picture when we were looking through the album yesterday," Carmen carried on regardless. "You and Lucius are doing your very best to play cool and coy and at the same time trying desperately to stop under the mistletoe."

At this declaration, Draco made his excuses and left the room. Carmen merely shrugged as she flicked through the heavy pages until she found what she was looking for. Narcissa found herself flung twenty-five years back into the past, to a time before everything started to go rapidly downhill, to a time before the Dark Lord when she and Lucius were still at school and taking the first heady steps of courtship.

"… And, whilst ostensibly this is a picture of the bride's parents looking both sad that their only child is flying the nest and happy that they don't have to put up with her constant chatter all the time," began Walden, "you can also see, in the background, the groom on the verge of smacking his drunken uncle one for suggesting an insalubrious reason as to why his nephew married so young, and, in the opposite corner, Lucius looking livid because the bride's grandfather is dancing with Narcissa."

"The dancing itself wasn't a problem; it was where he was putting his hands during it." Lucius had come into the room unnoticed by any of the gathered party and was viewing the photos over Walden's shoulder with an air of embarrassment. Before anyone could make a comment, there came another knock at the front door. Narcissa physically jumped out of her seat at the noise but managed to cover it by leaving the room to open the door. She was not quite so nervous this time, but the gnawing wondering of who could be coming, and more importantly why, did not leave her fully.

She was rather surprised to see Finn and Mareike standing on the doorstep.

"Deck the halls with… Oh let us in, it's flipping freezing out here," said Finn, his teeth chattering in the cold mist.

"I know you're probably sick of uninvited guests turning up unannounced at all hours, but I bring a little compensation." Mareike tapped the basket that was hovering alongside her with her wand and it flew jerkily into the house in front of them.

"For you," she said, catching it before it could go too far and presenting it to Narcissa. "Traditional Christmas…" she struggled for the English word "…stuff. But no cake. Finn ate it all."

"I…" Finn began, but he decided that it was probably best not to argue. As wondrously in love as Finn and Mareike always seemed to be, Narcissa was never left in any doubt as to who wore the trousers in the relationship. She opened the basket, inhaling the heady scent of spice and a typical European Christmas.

"My word Mareike, how much did you make?" she exclaimed. The younger woman shrugged.

"Takes my mind off things," she said.

Narcissa needed no further explanation. Any distraction in these bleak times, with death, disaster and destruction so close to home, was welcome.

"We've been doing the rounds," said Finn, "dispensing what little Christmas cheer we can. Because, well, it's Christmas, isn't it?"

Narcissa raised an eyebrow.

"How successful have you been?"

"Not very. There was no answer in Scotland and Cornwall told us to come back at a decent hour in the morning. We don't know where anyone else lives."

"I think they were still suffering under the after-effects of a Polish-style Christmas Eve," said Mareike, a smile playing over her lips no doubt in remembrance of the short shrift they had received at the home of Finn's colleague. "We continental Europeans always seem to set more importance on the twenty-fourth than the twenty-fifth." She paused. "Finn, why do half your comrades come from halfway across the globe?"

Finn didn't get the chance to reply, for they had reached the sitting room by this point, and as Narcissa opened the door, the new arrivals found themselves bowled over by Carmen, exclaiming at Mareike's expanded bump and wishing them Christmas spirits. Narcissa privately wondered if the red-head had been on the Christmas spirits herself.

"Well, that explains why we didn't get a reply in Scotland," said Finn weakly before a giggling Mareike pulled him over to where the others were gathered. Once they were all safely seated and comfortable, the collective attention returned to the book open on Carmen's lap and the pictures that were moving on a constant loop therein.

"Walden," began Finn, his voice sounding utterly confused as he looked at the photos, "why are you wearing a skirt?"

The room fell into a deathly silence. Carmen gave Narcissa a look that showed she was trying extremely hard not to laugh, and Narcissa knew that she was wearing the same expression herself. Walden's eyes narrowed into dangerous slits.

"That is not a skirt," he growled. "That is my kilt. My tartan. The cloth of my clan that I wear with pride!"

Finn looked more than a little bit scared, and this expression of mute terror proved too much for Carmen and Narcissa, who gave in to the threatening laughter.

"Dear me Finn, I know you were born here and you've been back for nearly two years now but you've still got a lot to learn about the whims of British wizards," said Carmen once she had finally regained the ability to speak coherently. "But to slowly turn us back to seriousness, there's the most wonderful picture of Cam and Evan in here…"

The dangerous situation diffused, they continued to discuss the time that had passed between the photos being taken and the present, Carmen's wine and Mareike's lebkuchen slowly decreasing as the hours wore on. It had all been so much simpler then. What had gone wrong?

"Twenty-five years," said Finn eventually. "I hope we get that far. I mean, that's longer than I've been alive."

"Finn, that makes me feel extremely old," groaned Walden.

"Come now, you're only as old as you feel," said Carmen.

"In that case I must be about four hundred," muttered Lucius. Narcissa rolled her eyes, but she then caught Mareike's grimace as the baby kicked, and she was suddenly lost in memories of her own experiences of pregnancy. She had been fairly certain at some points that Draco had actually been in training for the ballet before he was born. The expectant mother whispered something to her husband in her native tongue and he nodded.

"I think we should be going," said Finn. "Mari needs a lie down."

"She's so heavy," said Mareike with a sigh, placing a hand on her stomach.

"He," corrected Finn.

"It's a girl," said Mareike in a knowing tone "Believe me, I know these things."

Finn shook his head in obvious disbelief but gave in with good grace, offering his arm to help his wife off the low sofa. Lucius showed them out, leaving Narcissa, Carmen and Walden alone in the rapidly darkening sitting room.

"I'm glad I never had children," said Carmen matter-of-factly. "I'd have expired from worry by now. I have enough trouble with my cats."

"Carmen, your cats _are_ your children," said Narcissa. She had fond memories of the grey fluffball of a feline that had faithfully accompanied his mistress through her schooldays.

"You can say that again," said Walden. "I swear you treat them better than you do me." Carmen giggled. "It's no laughing matter!"

Lucius returned, shaking his head.

"I think the phrase 'expect the worst and hope for the best' was created for those two," he said gesturing towards the door to indicate friends just departed. "I have a horrible sense of foreboding every time I see them together."

"Oh, don't be so pessimistic," said Carmen, but her expression was at odds with her words. Narcissa knew what they meant. She had no fear that, should circumstances allow, Finn and Mareike would be together forever. They had such a depth of trust and love for each other that she knew they could be perfectly content if they were the only people left on the planet. But the trouble with such a deep and spiritual perfection was that it could be so easily marred by outside sources. There was so much evil pressing in on the fledgling family from all sides that their chances of coming out of this terrible war unscathed were virtually nil. All they could do was hope that providence took pity on them and sought to preserve their perserverence as a model for future generations.

"We should probably be making a move too," said Walden with a yawn. "It was very good to see you alive and well, and I am sure that the company makes up for the lack of tinsel."

"Of course," said Carmen. She looked down at the album in her hands with a sad smile and it vanished into the ether, back to her house in Scotland. "Nostalgia's a terrible thing, really. All we do is sigh and remember how good everything was back then. But still." She brightened purposefully. "Only three more years and we'll be doing this for you, trying to pick out people up to no good in the back of the photographs and saying 'well where did that quarter of a century go?'"

"Is everyone determined to make me feel old today?" moaned Walden as they filed out into the hallway and began their protracted farewells by the door. Carmen, loquacious as she always was, had begun to patter nervously, unwillingly to say goodbye. Narcissa knew that it was not her own fear that kept her from leaving, rather fear for what would happen to her hostess once scant company had dispersed and the family was left alone to the mercies of the one who controlled all their lives. Narcissa knew the feeling; she too did not want Carmen and Walden to leave them to fall back into the nervous melancholy that the last few months had been spent in; not when they had just experienced a few hours of happy and welcome distraction.

Their farewells were interrupted by a knock at the door.

"Piccadilly Circus," remarked Walden as Lucius went to open it. "What's the betting it's Finn and Mareike; they've forgotten something important?"

It was not Finn and Mareike, but one of the few people whom Narcissa held absolutely no desire to see on this supposedly celebratory day. Her sister stood in the doorway, her expression politely amused and disarmingly mild.

"A Christmas party?" she asked sweetly.

Walden's eyes narrowed, and Carmen's flickered between each of the family members in turn before alighting on Narcissa's. She shook her head in response to the unspoken question, although it was with a heavy heart that she did so. She could not ask her friends to fight her battles for her. There was no use in risking any more collateral damage than was necessary.

"We were just leaving," said Walden coolly. "Merry Christmas, Bellatrix."

The sentence was challenging but Bellatrix either did not pick up on the connotations or chose to ignore them. The departing guests passed her in the doorway and made their way towards the gates, but Carmen gave a worried look back over her shoulder.

"Well Cissy, aren't you going to invite your sister in on this cold and frosty Christmas Day? T'is the season, after all."

Narcissa motioned for Bellatrix to come in with a dismissive flick of her head and slammed the door shut behind her, stepping back to Lucius's side and feeling his arm come around her waist in a gesture of mutual reassurance.

"What do you want?" she asked.

"Is that it?" said Bellatrix, affecting hurt. "No 'Merry Christmas'? No 'season's greetings'?"

"Bellatrix, I have known you too long to believe that you've come for purely benevolent reasons," snarled Narcissa. "Where's Rodolphus?"

"Oh, he's around somewhere, I'm sure he'll be along later," said Bellatrix airily. "Well, since you seem determined to get down to business… Could I borrow Lucius for a minute?"

The hand round Narcissa's waist increased its grip momentarily and then let go as Lucius indicated the empty drawing room and Bellatrix swept into it.

Narcissa wanted to beg him not to go, but she knew that at this moment, acquiescence was probably going to be less dangerous than defiance. Her mind flashed back to a conversation that she had overheard, a single sentence when all said and done, but the participants were all too clear to hear.

"_These are desperate times, Mrs Lestrange," _the Dark Lord had said, his tone whispering and dangerously pleasant,_ "and desperate measures are called for."_

Narcissa had no doubt that the 'desperate measures' to which he had alluded were the reason for Bellatrix's sudden desire for private interface with her brother-in-law. As the door swung closed behind them, leaving Narcissa alone in the hall, she found herself recanting the firm statement that she had made on waking. Perhaps this was going to be their worst Christmas after all.

* * *

**Note3:** My second Christmas in sixth months. Argh! Well, at least I didn't run around the flat yelling 'Weihnachten will mich töten!' like I did in December… Onwards!


	40. Tea and Biscuits

**Note: **Ok, please allow me a concession to ridiculousness. (Well, theoretically this entire thing is ridiculousness, and you haven't seen what I'm cooking up for the ending yet.) Herein a few things happen that would probably never happen in the real thing, but they aid the story-telling so please let them lie.

**Note2:** Part two of the update! In which there is a reference to Jason Isaacs' filmography. Brownies for the person who finds it.

* * *

**Chapter Forty**

**Tea and Biscuits**

If Severus could describe this particular Christmas Day in one word, it would be _quiet_. In the wake of all the unrest, there was no wonder that parents wanted to have their children as close to them as possible during this most important holiday. Minerva had remarked to him at lunch that she thought it was the only time in the school's history when there had been more staff present than pupils for the festive period. It had been a sobering sight, the few pupils gathered around one table as far away from the teachers as possible. The staff had decided to dispense with the formality of the top table and descend into the hall itself considering they were so few, and the pupils had been visibly worried by the idea of having them in such close proximity whilst they enjoyed their Christmas meal. Thankfully, the wine flowing in full force had meant that the staff were more raucous than the students and a good time had been had by all. Whilst Severus had been perfectly content to remain out of sight as normal throughout the meal, Minerva had insisted that he show his face to prove to the rest of the staff that she hadn't killed him. Thankfully, the colleagues that would have reacted to his presence the most frostily had all gone to their respective homes and the ones that remained were far more interested in drowning their sorrows to pay much attention to the fact that Severus had suddenly returned from his supposed early grave.

Apart from lunch he, Minerva and Poppy had spent the majority of the day in the latter's office next to the hospital wing, exchanging small token gifts and talking in muted tones about the progression of the year so far. It was almost as if they were subconsciously afraid of anyone hearing the truth. It had occurred to Severus at several points over the last few months that only these two witches knew his true allegiance, and that if anything were to happen to them, he would be alone in his mission; one man who did not truly belong to any side trying to change the course of an entire war. He shuddered inwardly at the thought, but he could not put his unease out of his mind completely. He was convinced that something was going to happen in the near future, and he had been on his guard for so long that he was certain that this anticipated _something_ would occur as soon as he relaxed for even a moment. It would have been so easy for the Dark Lord to install him as the head (not that Severus was particularly enthralled by this idea, having seen the burdens that Dumbledore and Minerva had had to bear), but he had not done so. Minerva still had ultimate control over the establishment, and Severus knew that for the Dark Lord to gain complete dominion as he wanted, she would have to be replaced at some point. It was this that Severus was afraid of.

Thankfully, Minerva had had the good sense to remain within the safety of Hogwarts' walls as much as possible, and Severus knew that the Dark Lord would not risk an all out strike yet. Yet. The word hung in the air, an ominous threat mocking Severus with its uncertainty and grim potential. Yet. It was a marker of an inevitable that hadn't happened yet, and although one knew it was coming, one could not predict when.

"Milk, Severus?"

Poppy's voice brought him back from his daydream; such a simple, down-to-earth question managed to half-pull him out of his dark and depressive downward spiral of thought. He shook his head in response and accepted the cup of tea that the nurse handed him, focussing on the present. They had once more gravitated to her office and, as the evening drew closer in towards the night, they were enjoying tea and the rather decadent chocolate biscuits that Poppy had been gifted by her nephew that morning.

"Well, we've nearly survived another year," said Minerva dryly, stirring her tea with a chocolate finger.

"Don't speak too soon," warned Severus. "Evil never sleeps."

"I've often wondered about that," said Poppy, dunking a biscuit into her cup and forgetting to take it out again, looking rather surprised when she did eventually remove it to find that it had disintegrated into soggy mush. "After all, it pays to know thy enemy. How human is he? Does he need to sleep and eat like any other person, or is he more magic than man?"

"I wouldn't want to know," said Minerva, unable to suppress a shudder of revulsion at the thought.

Severus had never really given the matter all that much attention. He thought of the Dark Lord as a dangerous psychopath not to be crossed except by the suicidally brave or the simply suicidal, and he spent many a spare moment wondering which category he fitted into. He pushed the matter to the back of his mind, wondering what his other colleagues were doing, wondering how they had spent their Christmas day. No doubt in as much fear and unease as he had. Idly he wondered how they could stand it, working for someone out of fear alone, but he knew that they had no choice. What most people overlooked when they thought of the Dark Lord's depraved followers, was that unlike their serpentine master, they really were people, with fears and loves like anyone else of the human race.

He thought in particular of Marlena Dolohov: a quiet, unassuming witch with terrible taste in spectacles who worked in the Gargoyle Liaison Office and who never crossed anyone's mind until they realised just why her surname seemed so horribly familiar and looked at her with a new-found fear. To the public at large, she was the woman who had stayed by her husband's side as he had admitted to performing horrific torture and countless murders in front of the Wizengamot; the Wicked Witch of Cornwall with a heart as black as her hair. To Severus, she was the woman who had spent more of her married life separated from her husband than she had spent with him, and who had found a willing friend in Calvados to help her through the loneliness. Perhaps that was why she wore such awful glasses, to detract people's attention from the broken capillaries in her eyes caused by years of finding solace in the bottle. It was sad to think that so many refused to believe that the human side of those they feared existed, writing them off as a single, faceless phalanx.

Before his thoughts could go any further, they were interrupted by a flash of silver light that forced its way through the slightly opened door and came skidding to a halt in front of Severus. It was a patronus in the shape of a great grey she-wolf with wide and sorrowful eyes.

"Whose is that?" asked Poppy. "The only Order members I know with wolf patronuses are Tonks and Remus, and it definitely isn't either of those." Minerva shrugged, also baffled by the unknown creature, but Severus had an idea, and it was with grim trepidation that he realised that if the sender was who he thought it was, then something had gone very wrong indeed. His fears were confirmed when the wolf began to speak.

"Severus, I know that it is unorthodox, contacting you at the castle like this, but I have to speak to you as soon as possible; a letter would take too long. Please get in touch as quickly as you can, it's important."

The patronus vanished and Severus looked up to find Poppy and Minerva staring at him politely.

"Camilla Rosier," he said eventually.

Poppy gave an exclamation of surprise then shook her head sadly.

"That girl should have been a healer. She was about to start her training but then she had to go and get married and give it up." She brought her cup down on the saucer with such force that Severus was worried that both would shatter. "I've never understood the old families' obsession with marrying their girls off so young."

"If it makes you feel any better, Camilla and Evan were very much in love," said Severus, inexplicably feeling the need to jump to Camilla's defence. "And she is a healer of sorts."

Poppy nodded, slightly mollified by this. He didn't need to go on to explain exactly how she was a healer; the others understood.

"I had not seen her patronus before," he said absently, "but I guessed it was hers. They do say that a she-wolf will care for all the cubs in her pack, whether they are her own or not, and Camilla certainly does that. These past few months she has been needed at the Malfoy residence with increasing regularity."

"She always had a really remarkable capacity for love," said Poppy fondly. "Pomona said that she would have made an excellent Hufflepuff."

Severus wondered at their different memories of the same woman. Camilla had belonged to the half-generation between himself and Poppy; she completed her education at Hogwarts just as Poppy was beginning her working life there. There was not, in reality, all that much difference between the two women, but one could never think of them in the same light. Whilst Poppy was caring, sympathetic and no-nonsense, just as Camilla was, the younger witch was ultimately driven and ruthlessly determined. However good a Hufflepuff she would have been, she was a better Slytherin.

"Severus…" Minerva's voice broke through the haze of his thoughts. "Hadn't you better go? It sounded urgent."

Severus shook his head.

"I am under very strict instructions to remain here at all costs. Ostensibly to keep an eye on things, although there isn't all that much to be keeping an eye on." He paused. "I should contact her, though. If she needs my advice then she must have run into something really quite atrocious. It's not often that she asks for outside help."

"The fireplace in the head's office is the only one in the school not being monitored by the Ministry," said Minerva matter-of-factly. "Thankfully I have an agreement with a nice man named Seymour at the Floo Office."

Severus nodded his thanks and left the room. Minerva had not offered the fireplace overtly, but he knew her reasoning all the same. As he made his way through the all-but-deserted school to the head's office, he wondered what on Earth had happened. He would find out soon enough. Severus knelt on the mat in front of the fireplace and threw the sparkling powder into the grate.

"Hope House," he said to the green flames before gritting his teeth and plunging his head into the fireplace. Floo travel was no-one's favourite means of communication, but it was the quickest method that they had.

"Camilla?" he called to the room that he was now faced with, the witch in question standing and staring out of the window into the night, paying no attention to the world around her. She started when she heard Severus's voice and ran over to the fireplace.

"Merlin, you scared the life out of me! I know I said ASAP, but I wasn't expecting it to be quite so soon." She paused. "I'm sorry to put a dampener on your Christmas spirit, Severus, but I don't quite know what to make of it all."

"What's happened?" asked Severus, the beginnings of alarm making themselves known for the first time since receiving the patronus message.

Camilla sighed.

"I've just got back from you-can-guess-where," she said, indicating the outdoor cloak still swathed around her shoulders. "It's a long story but suffice it to say that there's in-fighting in the ranks. They're turning on each other Severus, and that scares me."

"Cam, when you put so many morally and mentally dubious people together, there's always going to be friction."

Camilla shook her head.

"Not like this. There's always snarking and back-biting and one-upmanship, but words can't harm anyone. It's never extended any further than that, until now. And I am afraid, Severus, because _he _wouldn't allow it. He wouldn't allow them to destroy themselves from the inside out, so that means he must be behind it. And that's the thought that scares me."

It scared Severus too, although he did not want to unnerve Camilla further by admitting this. She had come to him for support, not the opposite.

"Who was it?" he asked. "Or can I guess?"

"You can probably guess."

"Cam, Lucius and Bellatrix have never seen eye to eye and every family's tensions run higher at Christmas. Are you sure it's as bad as you think it is?"

The older witch nodded.

"It's a long story."

Severus grimaced, he was already getting a crick in his neck from the brief conversation. An idea flickered into life at the back of his mind and he pondered it in silence for a while.

"Severus?" probed Camilla. "Is everything alright?"

He nodded.

"Come through," he said eventually. "I can't leave the school but you can come in. It'll be slightly more comfortable than this method of communication. Just… trust me," he added on seeing Camilla's eyebrows raise in polite disbelief at his suggestion. She shrugged her shoulders and Severus pulled out of the flames and stepped aside to allow Camilla through the connection. A few moments later, she landed in the office.

"Well, here's a place I haven't seen in a while," she murmured, looking around at the portraits whose universal slumber she appeared not to have disturbed. Severus knew for a fact, however, that more than a few of them were surreptitiously eavesdropping and would repeat the entire conversation parrot-fashion to Minerva later. Considering their vast combined age, the ex-heads of Hogwarts were absolutely merciless when it came to gossip. Camilla sat thankfully in the chair in front of the desk and Severus drew up another one opposite her, feeling it a tad inappropriate to use Minerva's.

"So what's the long story?" he asked. Camilla drew a bottle out of one of the voluminous pockets of her cloak and handed to him.

"Is that what I think it is?" she asked plainly.

"It's brandy," said Severus, puzzled. Camilla shook her head.

"Open it," she said.

He spun the cap off the bottle and sniffed, suddenly overpowered by a terrible chemical smell generally found in the dungeons after a bodged potions test. He knew immediately what Camilla thought it was and he had to agree with her.

"I thought so," she said. "It took me a while to bring him round."

"Lucius drank this?" Severus asked in disbelief.

"Right now, Lucius would drink drain cleaner if you told him it was over ten per cent proof," said Camilla drily. "But hopefully this latest escapade should temper his enthusiasm slightly. I warned him that if I find him comatose once more, I'll take advantage of the situation and dress him in green sequins and fishnet stockings." She paused. "Well, either that or I'll give him an orchidectomy, in which case he really will have cause to lose consciousness."

Severus laughed. Camilla's threats were inventive, but it was worryingly rare for her to back down on them.

"I'm deadly serious! Honestly though Severus, you can tell why I'm worried."

Severus turned the bottle over in his hands.

"Why?" he asked simply. "Mind you, we'd be hard pushed to find a logical reason why Bellatrix does anything."

Camilla sighed.

"And therein lies the long story. I don't suppose you've got any brandy yourself, Severus? I could use something after the evening I've had. Christmas Day. Christmas bleeding Day."

Severus shook his head.

"I'm afraid I can't help you, although I suspect Minerva has medicinal Scotch somewhere in here."

"Well, you can't have everything." She sighed. "Bellatrix decided to take advantage of the festive lull to give Draco a little personal tuition. In order for said tuition to be effective however, she needed Lucius out of the way. And to that end…" She nodded towards the bottle. "I'm not sure if she was aware of its long-term effects but I wouldn't put anything past her. Anyway, lessons were learned all round. Draco learned that his aunt really is clinically insane, Bellatrix that you can't turn a boy against his father no matter how sneaky you try to be, and I learned that Rodolphus has a brain beneath the exterior. I was most surprised when he was the one who contacted me. But, when the rest of the family are having hysterics, someone needs to take charge."

Severus was completely confused as to precisely what had occurred at the manor, but he knew that he probably didn't want to know the exact details.

"I really wanted a second opinion," she said, looking mournfully at the bottle that now sat on the desk. "Christmas Day," she murmured again. "Has the woman no _soul_?" The vehemence with which she spat the last word shook some of the portraits out of their faux slumbers, and Camilla shifted uncomfortably under their eyes. "Apologies ladies, gentlemen. I probably shouldn't intrude any longer. I'm sorry Severus, I've managed to mess up your Christmas too with my foreboding."

"It doesn't matter, Cam," Severus reassured the older witch. "The sooner the better in such cases. And I do accept that your worry has true cause." There was a long pause. "I hate to say it Cam, but all you or I can do is wait and see what happens. There's nothing to gain from interfering, and unfortunately everything to lose from such an action."

Camilla nodded her agreement glumly.

"This wasn't how it was supposed to be," she sighed. "I don't quite know how it was supposed to be, but it certainly wasn't like this."

"Cam," said Severus gently, "don't dwell on it. Go home, enjoy what's left of your Christmas Day and try to forget for the moment."

As they said their short goodbyes and Camilla disappeared back into the fireplace, Severus knew that his words would have had no effect and that the witch would be contemplating the day's events for a long time to come.

"She doesn't treat you as one of them."

If Severus was surprised by the entry of the room's owner, he didn't show it. Minerva came around the door fully and sat down in the chair that Camilla had vacated.

"I apologise for eavesdropping, Severus," she said simply. She offered no explanation or excuse, and Severus understood perfectly and nodded to that end.

"No," he said, pondering the headmistress's earlier words. "I can't explain why. That's just the way Cam is. I think she sees me more as an outsider, like she is."

"Does she know your true allegiance?" Minerva asked. The question was asked lightly, but the depth of meaning behind it was all too clear to see.

"If she suspects, then she doesn't care," Severus replied in earnest. "Camilla's first and foremost priority is making sure no-one gets killed. If that means resorting to insubordination and fraternising with the enemy, then so be it. Considering that the majority of what she deals with is caused by the Dark Lord himself, I don't think that she will be betraying her suspicions of my loyalty in a hurry."

Minerva seemed a little pacified by this, but only a little.

"What do you think this means for the Order?" she asked at length. "For us in general?"

Severus shook his head.

"I don't know."

As he had said to Camilla, they could only wait and see.

* * *

**Note3:** More about precisely what happened chez Malfoy on Christmas Day will be revealed in time.

**Disclaimer:** Credit for the idea of a she-wolf caring for all the cubs in her pack goes to David Eddings. I am no zoologist and I have no idea whether it is true or not.


	41. An Important Withdrawal

**Note: **Ok, it's official. Updates will now be whenever I get the blasted chapters finished. This delay was a mixture of writer's block and general stress coupled with the fact that there has been an ecoli outbreak in North Germany where I live and I am a complete panicking hypochondriac.

**Note2:** Here there be dragons … And an insight into the mysterious mind of Rodolphus Lestrange, whom I always felt rather sorry for…

* * *

**Chapter Forty-One**

**An Important Withdrawal**

It was a well-known fact amongst the wizarding world that Gringotts bank closed but for one day a year; the second of January. It was therefore not unheard of for the bank to receive customers on Boxing Day, a holiday during which it held the privilege of being the only open place in Diagon Alley. The goblins might not receive many visitors, but no-one would be overly surprised if the odd one or two needed to make urgent withdrawals having nearly bankrupted themselves in the run up to the festive season.

It was for this reason that the goblins of Gringotts were not completely surprised when Rodolphus Lestrange walked into the bank at half-past eleven on the twenty-sixth of December. Indeed, they were more surprised by his presence itself rather than by the odd time of year at which he was visiting them. Since they had re-entered society and their account had been unfrozen, Bellatrix had been in charge of the Lestrange vault. It was something that the goblins had noted at the time but made no comment upon; Bellatrix Lestrange was far more secretive and protective concerning the fortune that she had married into than most in her position. However much the goblins might speculate, however, they would never say anything, not even to each other. They did not worry themselves with the complexities of witches and wizards.

Nonetheless, any goblin would, when pressed, admit to feeling a small modicum of surprise on seeing Rodolphus Lestrange striding through the foyer of the bank wearing an expression of equal parts grim determination and unfathomable fury. Rodolphus was not a particularly complicated man; he never had been. He had always been intererested in the Dark Arts, well, what little academic inclination he had possessed in his younger years had always tended in this direction, and he had become one of the Dark Lord's most trusted followers. This widely accepted picture was perfectly accurate in its way, and Rodolphus had never felt the need to point out to people the finer points of his psyche. He was not sure himself if he had any.

The other characteristic that the majority of people knew about Rodolphus was his lack of mental stability, a darkness that had always been present yet dormant for most of his life and that had awakened to its full potential during his time in Azkaban. Rodolphus himself was always painfully aware of it, of how his emotions floated constantly just below the surface, each one magnified tenfold and as quick to ignite as the last. In Azkaban, there had never been any need for self-control, and now he had to keep his passionate temper forever in check for fear of losing face or worse. It was a mixture of this explosive, unpredictable temperament and tight control that had led him to Gringotts today, the enactment of a hastily improvised and not-at-all-thought-out plan that had flown into his brain on the spur of the moment. He neither knew nor cared for the consequences, although he suspected that he would not have to wait long to find them out. He simply wanted to cause the maximum amount of pain as possible for the pain that had been caused to him. He wanted sweet and cold revenge.

Whilst Rodolphus was an uncomplicated man for the most part, there was one thing about him that very few people realised. The Lestrange-Black marriage was undoubtedly a strategically arranged political union, but it was not one completely devoid of feeling, for one half at least. Rodolphus had fallen head over heels for Slytherin's unattainable heartbreaker the moment he met her, and the feelings had not dimmed in time but increased. What had also increased, however, was his biting jealousy.

Rodolphus had always known that there was a third party in their marriage, even without his brother's snide remarks of ménage à trois or the whispered comments of his comrades behind his back. He knew that Bellatrix's first and only love was not him. And in his most testing display of self-control to date, Rodolphus had simply watched whilst his wife fawned over their master, and the anger rose like bitter bile in his throat.

But no more. It had gone far enough. It was time to put an end to it, and if his life was the price to pay then so be it. He wanted to destroy the Dark Lord just as the Dark Lord had ruined Rodolphus. It was with this determined thought that Rodolphus stopped at the counter and spoke to the goblin in charge.

"I wish to visit my vault," he said in as calm a voice as he could muster whilst the thoughts of wrongs done to him were still swimming freely in his head.

"Certainly sir," said the goblin. "Will you be making a withdrawal?"

Rodolphus smiled wolfishly at the thought of what he was about to do.

"In a manner of speaking."

He was shown through the bank towards the vaults and settled into the cart whilst other goblins brought the necessary equipment to deal with the high security of his ancient account. As they sped down the tracks into the depths of the bank, Rodolphus reflected on the events that had led him to embark on this suicide mission. It had been a single word, a word that he had probably either misheard or at least misunderstood the intentions of, but it had ignited too much anger for him to think rationally about this probability. The Dark Lord had come to their home on Christmas morning and disappeared into private counsel with Bellatrix. It was not an uncommon occurrence; however much Rodolphus might resent it, he did not find it unusual. He did his best to put the Dark Lord to the back of his mind, but he could not help overhearing as he passed the door behind which they were secreted…

They had come to a standstill at this point and Rodolphus was forced to come back to the present and listen to the goblins' warnings concerning the dragon that they were driving further back into the passage with clinkers.

Finally, the door was opened and the goblins withdrew. Rodolphus looked in on the riches that had been handed down through the generations of his family since it had first been founded all those years ago. He knew that the Dark Lord had entrusted Bellatrix with something very, very important, and he knew that she had placed it into their vault for safekeeping. He knew that somehow destroying, withdrawing or simply misplacing this item would be a loss to his master.

What he didn't know was what on Earth he was looking for.

Rodolphus smiled to himself. There was only one thing for it.

He raised his wand, running through the many spells of destruction that he knew and wondering which would be the most effective at razing his entire fortune. He knew that he wasn't going last much longer to use it, and there was no love lost between him and Rabastan, who might otherwise have a claim to the riches therein.

Rodolphus's lips formed around the first words of the spell, but before he could curse he heard the telltale rush of casting magic behind him. He ducked the spell instinctively, and he knew who had cast it without having to turn round. He knew it wouldn't take her long to track him down, and he knew that once she realised where he was, she would know what he was intending to do.

"Morning, _Trixie_."

That was the word that he had heard, or thought he had heard. It was his pet name for her, it always had been, and he was the only person who could get away with calling her it. She barely tolerated Bella; she was Bellatrix to everyone except her closest family.

As he turned and easily deflected his wife's next curse, rational thought penetrated Rodolphus's brain for a moment. It was more than extremely unlikely that the Dark Lord himself would have called Bellatrix by a pet form, not when he was normally so cold and distanced from his followers. He had misheard, it was as simple as that.

On the other hand however, this jealousy was not a sudden occurrence. It had been burning within him, gradually hotter and hotter until it was all-consuming, and he had snapped; pet names aside he was not going to tolerate it any longer.

It did not take long for them to degenerate into a full scale duel. Both husband and wife, however estranged, had been frontline soldiers for the Dark Lord for as long as they had been in his employ, and combative magic was second nature to them. They were going to be there a very long time if a duel to the death was the desired outcome, and Rodolphus held no misconceptions that Bellatrix would have something up her sleeve.

He was right; her next spell broke the pattern that he had come to expect from her casting and he could only jump out of the way instead of use magic to deflect it. It whizzed past him and hit a small cup in the depths of the vault, ricocheting around the chamber and finally out into the narrow passage again.

Neither Rodolphus nor Bellatrix had accounted for the chain of events that this simple reflected spell would set into place. As soon as it had bounced passed his ear, missing him by a hair's breadth, Rodolphus cast his own defensive spell back at Bellatrix, not paying any attention to the direction in which her magic had flown. A split second later, he heard a terrible roar and a gout of orange fire shot from along the dismal passageway. The spell had hit the dragon, a fact that the dragon was not best pleased about, and Rodolphus had no doubts that the goblin who had remained to supervise the beast was now no longer.

On seeing the flames, both duellists instinctively ducked, sending the effects of Rodolphus's spell straight into the path of the oncoming blaze. As the fire rushed past them, it took his wand with it, pulling it in by effect of it still being part of the forming spell.

The result created therefrom was unlike anything that Rodolphus had ever seen. Like a Fiendfyre, the flames seemed to take on a life of their own, but unlike a Fiendfyre, they came together into an almost human form, burning a pale blue, barely visible but unbearably hot trail. Tiny red flames flickered at the points where one would normally expect to find the eyes.

Neither witch nor wizard moved as they looked at the spectre that had just come into being in front of their eyes, both speechless. Rodolphus was sure that he had just discovered, through no great will on his part, a completely new form of magic.

The fire creature turned its head first towards Bellatrix, who backed up a few steps, pointing her wand towards it. Somewhere behind the dumbstruck wonder, Rodolphus felt a prick of pride at having created something that Bellatrix feared, but then the creature turned towards him, and before he'd had time to think of a suitable next move, it had launched itself at him like a white-hot cannonball. Rodolphus threw himself onto the floor and he felt the hairs on the back of his neck scorch as the _thing_ flew over his head and into the vault behind him. He glanced over his shoulder just in time to see it hit the very cup that Bellatrix's catalysing spell had reflected off so strangely.

As it touched the metal, there was an almighty explosion, showering the rest of the contents of the vault in blue embers, molten gold and a strange, thick, tar-like substance.

There was silence for a moment, the creature seeming to have been destroyed in the blast along with the cup. Rodolphus looked round at Bellatrix. Her face was completely devoid of colour, her expression one of sheer terror. Oh yes. Rodolphus had achieved his goal, certainly. There could be no doubting that the very item that the fire spectre had destroyed had been entrusted to Bellatrix's care by their master.

He opened his mouth to speak although he was not at that point completely sure what he could say to gloat with, but before any words could formulate, there was a roar of flame from behind him as the tiny blue embers erupted into a full-blown blaze. Rodolphus picked himself up off the floor, finding himself face to face with his wife's wand. Her fear had passed, being replaced with the far more familiar expression of anger.

"That was very foolish, Rodolphus," she whispered, "very foolish indeed." She smiled cruelly. "So this is how it is to end then, my dear?"

Rodolphus shook his head, sadly looking around at the smoking legacy of his forefathers, his family, a family that had never truly included Bellatrix. Killed by his own wife on the orders of a master whom she had always adored far more than him... Rodolphus might not be a man of great self-respect – years of imprisonment in a living hell of rapidly decreasing sanity had done that to him – but he still retained a modicum thereof.

"Oh no, Trixie," he said, his twisted smile matching her own. "I think, for once, I would like to choose how it ends."

It was only at that moment that Bellatrix truly looked at their surroundings, at the burning vault and the melting walls that were threatening to bring the whole structure in on itself at any second.

"No you don't…" she began, but Rodolphus had already taken a step back through the flames, reunited with the legacy of his true family as the ceiling caved on top of him and the ruins of his life.

* * *

**Note3: **Nope, I have no idea what the fire-creature was either, but I knew from the beginning that it was going to exist… Anyway, four horcruxes down!


	42. The Animal Within

**Disclaimer:** If such a thing as a Norwegian Nangdoodle already exists, then hats off to the person who discovered it or invented it. It was the first nonsense word that came into my head.

**Note:** Just one chapter again. Like I said last time, they're coming whenever I finish them. I've got some of the coming chapters already written so they'll be posted en masse.

**Note2: **Well folks, my self-imposed deadline is fast approaching, it is now but six short weeks away and you've no idea how many chapters I've got left to write. I need to find out how it ends! (No, I am not going to do a Dallas and wake up with Dumbledore in the shower. That would be beyond disturbing…)

* * *

**Chapter Forty-Two**

**The Animal Within**

Neville still couldn't quite believe that Christmas had come and gone already. The last four months had been spent in such a tense mess of adrenaline, a coiled spring ready to explode, that they had not paid much attention to the passage of time. There were far more important things to be doing than ticking the days off on a calendar, things like anticipating and trying to plan for an attack that just didn't seem to be coming. That was another reason why Neville had been so surprised to find Christmas just around the corner and even more surprised to find it had passed with relatively few hitches; if you'd asked him at the beginning of the academic year, he would have expected, in all honesty, for something catastrophic to have happened by now.

True, the year had not been without trials and tragedies. It was impossible to avoid the death and destruction that seemed to be surrounding them and moving ever closer, its grip tightening so horribly perceptibly. Hardly a week went by without a student being told of deceased or missing relatives. But in the comparative safety of the castle's sturdy walls, they survived somehow. The DA had, according to Neville's plans, become a great help in that respect, and Neville was proud that he had helped to engineer this student support network. Membership had doubled and tripled over the past few weeks, to the extent where they needed to hold two meetings in order to accommodate everyone; one for beginners and one for long-time members. The gatherings often overran, with people staying to talk and share experiences long after the instruction itself had finished. It was far more than just a defence association, bringing together students of different ages and houses who would never normally meet, and allowing them to discover that they all had a lot more in common than they would have previously admitted. Neville had made a point of trying to mix up the houses in pairs and groups when they practised to try and avoid the Room of Requirement reflecting the divisions that were far more deeply rooted within the school.

Slytherin was still by far the most underrepresented house, but after word had spread that the green faction was just as welcome as any other, their membership had continued to increase. The new recruits mainly came from the first four years, and Neville accepted that that the familial connections and the too-long-established rivalry in the older students would prevent them joining. Still, there were more Slytherins than there had been, and there had been no upsets within the group as a result, which Neville considered an achievement. One surprise member was Blaise Zabini. Neville had never really given him much thought, always grouping him together with Malfoy, and he had been surprised when Blaise had approached him after a charms lesson and asked, a little nervously, if he could join. Now that he thought about it, Neville reflected that he really didn't know his classmates at all. As it was, Blaise had brought with him a selection of highly unusual albeit undoubtedly effective hexes and their counters learned from his peers, and they had duly been passed on through the group as another weapon in their ever-increasing arsenal.

The thing that would never fail to astound Neville, though, was the regard in which the other students now held him.

"I don't understand," he said to Ginny as they made their way towards the Room of Requirement, where the beginners' class was about to get underway, and people kept waylaying him to ask if he'd had a good Christmas. "I mean, I'm not famous. If I were Harry, I'd understand, but I'm just me. I haven't done anything amazing. I didn't even create Dumbledore's Army, that was Hermione."

"Neville…" Ginny began, but she gave up her explanation before she started it and just shook her head with a smile. Luna met them as they entered the room.

"You're later than normal," she said. "We were about to send a search party out. Ron's lost his eyebrows twice…"

If Neville was confused by this remark then he didn't show it.

"…and Trevor escaped again, but I think he's safe now."

Neville looked at Trevor, who was magically glued to the door but seemed to be content despite this, and raised an eyebrow. He had to admit, it was an ingenious if unorthodox solution. A puff of smoke signalled the end of another game of exploding snap, and a high-pitched yelp told them that Ron had lost for the third time in a row. Hermione rolled her eyes and pulled out her wand, declaring that this was the last time that she regrew his eyebrows for him, and that if he lost them again he would be wearing a permanently surprised look for the next three weeks. Thankfully, the arrival of Neville and Ginny seemed to distract them from snap and they came over to chat whilst they waited for Harry so that the lesson could begin. Normally, the classes began as soon as there were enough people to make it worthwhile, with whichever longer term members who happened to be there starting the instruction until Harry came to cast his more experienced eye over the proceedings. On this occasion however, they had made the mutual decision to bend to their pupils' wishes and teach them to cast patronuses, and this was an art in which none of the elder students felt confident enough to instruct. Harry had been a little alarmed when they suggested it, advanced magic as it was, but it had not taken long for the others to convince him of the necessity of learning such things. With the depressive atmosphere growing ever larger and the dementors breeding like proverbial rabbits, everyone ought to have a little instruction so as not to completely give in to misery.

Their teacher arrived a few moments after Neville and the lesson began in earnest. By the end of the hour, Neville found himself feeling happier than he had done in months; the sheer amount of positive thinking required to cast the basic patronus form, let alone cast one strong enough to solidify into an animal shape, was infectious, and for the first time in a long time, the Room of Requirement had rung with genuine laughter, the happiness bouncing off the walls and increasing tenfold as it did so. Those younger students who left immediately in order to get to their common rooms before the curfew went with smiles on their faces, and the sight of melancholy banished, even if only for a short time, made Neville and the others smile too.

Not everyone left as soon as the instruction was finished; the slightly older students stayed to talk to one another and Arnold, Gryffindor's latest quidditch superman, fiddled with the wizarding wireless that the room had thoughtfully provided for their entertainment and to keep in touch with what was happening in the outside world. Now that the Ministry and in their turn the media had been taken over by You-Know-Who, it was becoming harder and harder to find out what was truly going on, and the few pirate magical radio stations took great care not to be discovered. Presently, the old machine blasted out 'we're all going on a summer holiday'. Neville remembered the thick snow that still lay on the ground around the castle and raised an eyebrow at the choice of song.

"Sorry," called Arnold from the wireless. "Tuned it into the muggle network by accident." He twiddled the nobs on the front of the apparatus and a familiar newscasting voice began to speak.

"_Reports are coming in that the dragon which escaped from Gringotts bank on Boxing Day has been spotted as far away as Mongolia. The goblins have always been rumoured to have used to beasts in the guarding of their highest security vaults, and this specimen managed to escape after the spectacular collapse of part of the bank's internal infrastructure. The building has remained closed for safety reasons ever since, and the goblins are refusing to give comment as to the cause of this spectacular ruin. One, however, was heard to mutter something about 'if all couples solved their arguments with a fight to the death then the divorce rates would plummet'. Dragon fanciers the world over have been trying to catch a glimpse of the magnificent reptile, which has so far eluded all attempts to catch it."_

"Hagrid'll be pleased that it's still holding its own," said Harry, coming over to Neville. "He's been so worried about that dragon. I'm half-convinced that he's going to go out looking for it himself with a steak and a blanket in case it gets cold."

Neville laughed, but as the news continued, the joyous atmosphere that had built up in the room slowly began to dissipate as the more sombre statistics began to be broadcast. Arnold also felt the change in the mood and switched the radio off, leaving Harry and Neville to their conversation, which naturally turned to the lesson just experienced.

"They're really coming on leaps and bounds," said Harry. "If we can convince Arnold that his patronus isn't a chicken then we'll be getting somewhere."

Arnold had not managed to produced a corporeal patronus as yet, but once a small beak had appeared from within the swirling mist. Convinced that this beak belonged to a chicken, he had been slightly disheartened and his subsequent casting attempts had not been quite so successful.

"Personally I don't see what's wrong with having a chicken as a patronus," mused Harry. "If it does its job then the shape doesn't matter."

"A chicken isn't really scary though," Neville pointed out.

"Neither's a stag," said Harry. "The dementors can't see it. Besides, some might find chickens terrifying. The alien killer chickens of doom. I'm sure Dudley had a comic called something like that once…"

Neville shook his head in disbelief, and his thoughts turned inwards. He too was unable to produce a corporeal patronus. He was not overly worried by this – he had certainly improved from not being able to produce the slightest wisp of smoke from the tip of his wand – but he was still intrigued to find out into what form his thoughts would distil themselves. For some people it was self-explanatory: Harry had the stag of his father, Luna had a March hare for her eccentricity, but what could Neville have? The only animal to which he had been particularly connected was Trevor, and he did not particularly want a toad for a patronus, despite Harry's assurance that the shape was secondary to the magical effects. In Neville's case, looking at a second Trevor would possibly only serve to remind him of the various disappointments in his life and thus completely defeat the object of the exercise.

"I'm sure you'll find yours eventually, Neville," said Harry, picking up on his companion's train of thought. He nodded, determined not to succumb to melancholy so soon after revelling in absorbing the happiness that had been rushing around the room.

"Harry," Ginny called from the doorway of the room. "Earth to Harry…" She tapped her watch. "Quidditch practice!"

"Crumbs," said Harry and he scrambled up from the floor beside Neville before running across the room to meet Ginny, Ron and Arnold who were all leaving. They called general goodbyes to the group and disappeared. Neville looked around the now almost-empty room. Only Luna and Hermione remained, the former staring fixedly at the middle distance and the latter lost in a book and oblivious to the world around her.

Neville decided it might be easier to turn to Luna first. Of all the people affected by the mad world in which they were living, Luna seemed to be bearing it the best, letting everything take its course whilst she continued in her life as best she could, ignoring what she could not hope to change instead of letting it depress her. It was an admirable tactic and Neville wished that he could do the same, but he simply could not blinker himself.

"It's not easy," Luna had admitted to him. "Of course you feel sympathy for people who are living in worse circumstances, who've lost their entire extended families, who've been orphaned for no reason. But we can't bring back the dead, Neville, and we definitely shouldn't try. We can offer sympathy, but we cannot stand still and hope that everything will stop. We have to keep moving forward."

It was possibly the most meaningful and comprehensible thing that she had ever said to him, and Neville had tried to live by its principles. He was trying to make positive influences where he could with the DA.

"Hi Neville," said Luna. "Have you come to watch the wrackspurts as well?"

"Yes," he said, sitting on the chair next to her, a moth-eaten wing-back item in purple velveteen. The Room of Requirement was never very particular about the seating arrangements it provided for them, every day seemed to herald a new batch of chairs for them to test, but the purple wing-back had been there since day one, almost as if it was part of the room itself and couldn't be removed. Neville had no idea why; it wasn't even the most comfortable of chairs.

"They really are fascinating creatures," said Luna. "And you can tell Arnold that his patronus isn't a chicken, it's a Norwegian Nangdoodle."

Neville and Hermione, who had looked up from her voracious reading on hearing the new species, knew better than to ask what a Norwegian Nangdoodle was. Hermione rolled her eyes but did not return to her reading as a massive yawn escaped her at this point.

"I think I ought to go to bed," she said through the yawn, and she closed the book with a dull thud, sending clouds of dust flying into the air. Neville suspected that his classmate had not been getting anywhere near enough sleep lately in her quest to finish the tome. He glanced at the title; _Secrets of the Darkest Art_.

"Why are you reading that?" he asked with a shudder.

"Research," said Hermione shortly. Her face was apologetic as she hefted her ever-overstuffed bag onto her shoulders and made to leave. "It's very complicated." She paused. "Do either of you two know anything about knitted magic?"

Neville and Luna shook their heads.

"I'm dying to know what Professor Babbling's knitting," Hermione muttered to herself. "I'm sure I read something somewhere but I can't for the life of me remember where."

Her murmuring continued for a moment, brow furrowed, until she seemed to remember the presence of her fellow students in the room with her.

"See you later." She waved and disappeared through the door, leaving Neville and Luna alone. The silence was not unpleasant, each absorped in their own thoughts and reflections. Neville found his thoughts turning inexplicably back towards Trevor and the possibility of seeing his double in patronal form.

"You'll find it in the end," said Luna suddenly, her statement seemingly unconnected to anything else. "The animal within, I mean. You're worried because you don't have a corporeal partonus, but it'll come."

Neville nodded. He had no doubt that it would, in the end. Most magic came to him in the end. The trouble was, he had the foreboding feeling that he would probably need to use it a little sooner than that.


	43. Luna Lends a Hand

**Note: **Half flashback chapter; again it was the only way I could get everything explained to my satisfaction.

* * *

**Chapter Forty-Three**

**Luna Lends a Hand**

"Well," said Ron, closing the heavy book in front of him with a satisfying thump and cloud of dust, "I'm stumped."

Harry raised an eyebrow but made no remark. He knew for a fact that instead of reading his book for the past hour and a half, Ron had been using it as a not particularly comfortable pillow, and indeed, some of the ink from the pages had come away on his forehead. They had spent the best part of the day, the best part of the week in fact, in the library, searching fruitlessly amongst the contraband books that Hermione and Madame Pince had managed to acquire between them. After the destruction of the fourth horcrux, they had been spurred on to make headway on their mission and bring it to an end once and for all, but they were frustratingly hampered by the fact they had no idea what they were looking for. Ostensibly the next horcrux should have originally belonged to Gryffindor or Ravenclaw; this knowledge, however, was not enough to secure them a physical form, nor a location. Harry closed his eyes and thought back to Boxing Day evening, nearly a month ago now, when they had learned of the obliteration of Hufflepuff's cup at Gringotts.

_Christmas at the Burrow had been a mostly cheerful affair in spite of the gloom that surrounded them, and as usual, Mrs Weasley had cooked enough to feed a small army for a week. This was probably just as well, thought Harry, as hardly a day seemed to go by without one of the members of the Order, a small army if ever there was one, dropping in to impart new knowledge, and they always seemed to be hungry when they came. Lupin and Tonks had already come to sample the mince pies on the pretence of reporting that there was nothing to report so naturally, when Bill and Fleur had arrived on the doorstep, Harry hadn't thought anything of it. They'd wanted to spend their first Christmas Day on their own as a couple, but today it made sense for them to drop in on extended family and friends to wish them the season's greetings. It took Harry a few moments to see, through a haze of leftover turkey and cranberry sauce sandwiches, that Bill looked as if he'd met a particularly unpleasant ghost. _

"_Is everything all right?" asked Mrs Weasley, flapping about with her tea towel and ushering the new arrivals into the living room and comfortable chairs. Once seated, Bill nodded, then shook his head, then nodded again before concluding faintly:_

"_I've no idea."_

"_What's happened?" asked Mr Weasley, wincing as he suddenly became alert and, no doubt, suddenly became aware of his acute indigestion at the same time. _

"_Well, to cut a long story short, Operation Dragontamer is off."_

"_Operation Dragontamer?" asked Harry incredulously._

"_It was slightly easier on the tongue than 'Operation Let's Break Into Gringotts' Highest Security Vaults And Try Not To Die Whilst We're At It'," said Lupin drily, "But go on, Bill. What's happened?"_

"_It's been destroyed," said Bill weakly, shaking his head slightly as if he couldn't quite believe himself what he was saying. "Along with a lot of the bank."_

_The room was silent. _

"_It can't be," said Harry eventually. He wanted to desperately to believe Bill, but he knew that horcruxes were fiendishly difficult to destroy; there was always the possibility that it was the only thing that had survived whatever catastrophe had befallen the bank. "Are you sure?"_

_Bill nodded, opening the small bag that he was carrying and waving his wand. Out of the bag floated at least a hundred tiny slivers of metal that briefly came together to form the shape of a small cup inscribed with a badger before falling apart again. It was twisted and deformed beyond repair in addition to its being in so many shards; warped by intense heat. There could be no denying that this was once the goblet of Helga Hufflepuff, and the level of destruction showed that it had definitely once been a horcrux. _

"_As soon as I saw the wreckage, I knew what I was looking for," said Bill, "although it took a while for me to find all the pieces." He sighed, sensing that the rest of the occupants of the cramped room – the entire family had gathered by this point – were anxious to hear the full story. "It happened like this. Fleur and I had gone to the bank to surreptitiously sort out a few details for our planned excursion there on the second. When we arrived, however, there was obviously something very wrong, not least of all the smoking hole in the roof and the dragon disappearing over the horizon."_

"_So Gringotts really does have dragons," said Ron. "Hagrid will be pleased to know one's found its way to freedom. Carry on," he added quickly. _

"_Well, we went in," said Bill, picking up where he had left off, "and the entire bank was in complete chaos, goblins running here, there and everywhere and no-one paying the slightest bit of attention to who was going in or out of the bank. I thought that this might be a good chance to do some reconnaissance, but I still had no idea what was going on._

"_Unfortunately Griphook noticed us at that point and came over to explain that the bank was going to have to close for the foreseeable future, and we asked him what had happened."_

"_Knowing the goblins, he probably said nothing," muttered Lupin._

"_You guess correctly. Finally we managed to persuade him to let us take a look at the damage as employees of the bank, even if he didn't tell us what had occurred exactly. On the cart journey, we got it out of him that Rodolphus Lestrange had come in, Bellatrix had followed him and that only Bellatrix had left, and in the process of whatever argument they were having, they'd brought down half the bank's ceiling." Bill paused. "We found his body in the vault, crushed by the masonry."_

_Fleur shuddered at the memory. _

"_It wasn't pretty," Bill agreed. "But still, there was work to be done. We thought that since we'd been given this opportunity, we might as well use it." He indicated the bag. "There's the result."_

"_Blimey."_

_It took Harry a while to digest the succinct story. _

"_Bellatrix Lestrange and her husband had an argument and ended up destroying the horcrux that was in their care?"_

"_So it would appear," said Lupin. "If I were you, I wouldn't think into it too much and I'd just be glad that our task has already been fulfilled." _

_Harry nodded. Four down, two to go… _

Harry came back to the present just in time to hear Hermione answer Ron.

"Well, it should all be a simple case of logic," she said matter-of-factly, closing her own book and starting on Ron's. "We know that it belonged to Gryffindor or Ravenclaw, so we need to find reference to a famous item that was once owned by one of them."

"Yes, we know that much," said Ron. "The problem is, we can't find any evidence of them owning anything other than Gryffindor's sword, which, as far as we know, has never left the possession of the Gryffindor house."

"And can't be a horcrux anyway," countered Hermione, "since it's imbued with the basilisk venom which would have destroyed it."

"Alright, alright," said Ron. "But you can see where I'm coming from."

"There's the sorting hat," said Harry, who had been thinking over the problem whilst the other two bantered. "That belonged to Gryffindor. You can't say that it's an ordinary hat, either."

"Harry, the sorting hat cannot be a horcrux," said Hermione, her voice exasperated.

"Why not?" asked Ron. "Dad always says that you can't trust something that you can't see where it keeps its brain, and who knows where the sorting hat keeps its brain?"

"But it doesn't even make sense for You-Know-Who to use something of Gryffindor's," said Hermione. "He's the heir of Slytherin, and ostensibly, Gryffindor and Slytherin were bitter enemies."

"Doesn't that make it even more likely, though?" asked Ron. "No, think about it. Using your ancestor's archenemy's hat to house a piece of your soul in sounds pretty much like the ultimate one-upmanship to me."

Hermione sighed, and Harry began to regret his not altogether serious suggestion of the hat. He quickly changed the direction of the conversation.

"Perhaps it would be easier to focus on Ravenclaw."

"We've got even less on her," moaned Ron. He looked around at the imposing library shelves. "You know, I'm beginning to think that there was method in the madness when You-Know-Who decided to get rid of magical history."

"If all else fails, we can always just try searching the school," said Harry. "Since we're pretty sure that this is where it's going to be."

The others nodded. It was an undeniable fact, one that had been put forward after the cup had been destroyed.

"_We're running out of possible hiding places," said Bill after his nerves had been restored with Mrs Weasley's rhubarb wine. Harry, Ron and Hermione had discreetly left the room in order to listen at the keyhole and therefore hear an awful lot more information than they might otherwise have done. "We've had the safest place in the wizarding world, a place of childhood importance, a place of ancestral importance, and in not-so-very-safekeeping with a loyal follower."_

"_If I was an insane evil megalomaniac, where would I hide my soul?" said Tonks drily. _

"_There's one place we haven't considered," said Lupin. "Hogwarts."_

_Harry, Ron and Hermione looked at each other. _

"_Why would it be there?" asked Bill. "True, it's probably the safest place in the world apart from Gringotts…"_

"_Including Gringotts if the bank's walls can be brought down by one angry dragon," Tonks pointed out._

"… _but you can't rule out Dumbledore's influence." Bill ignored the interruption. _

"_I think that's what makes it even more likely," said Lupin. "No-one would suspect. And think about it, he did have ample opportunity during his schooldays. And he went back to apply for the dark arts job, giving him a further opportunity…"_

_The more they had discussed it, the more it made horrible sense, and Harry, Ron and Hermione had made the silent and mutual decision to take on the task of looking for the horcrux as soon as they returned to the school._

"So we're focusing on trying to find out what possible heirlooms Rowena Ravenclaw could have left behind." Hermione's voice jerked Harry back to the present once more. "And so far, we've found nothing. Most of the other founders have at least one mention of their defining object, but not Ravenclaw."

"The Grey Lady?" suggested Harry.

"Pardon?"

"The Grey Lady," he repeated. "She's the Ravenclaw ghost, and she's obviously been hanging around the tower for a while. If anyone's going to know about the history of the house, then it's her. We could ask the Grey Lady."

"We could just ask a Ravenclaw," said Ron, nodding towards Luna, who was watching them from the end of a row with a somewhat amused smile on her face, having come across them a few moments prior.

"I think the object you're thinking of is Ravenclaw's diadem," she said calmly. "It bestows great wisdom and knowledge upon the bearer," she continued. "Ravenclaws have been searching for it for centuries, but no-one has found it. The cynical say that it doesn't exist; the slightly less cynical say that she took it to her grave, but I believe."

The sixth-year came over to them and picked up the book that Harry had been looking through without success.

"You're looking in the wrong bit," she said plainly, opening the book at the back to a small thumbnail picture of what looked to be an ordinary tiara. "Ravenclaw's diadem. It was under your nose the whole time."

Harry looked at the picture, and he was struck with a horrible familiarity. He had seen that diadem before; not on paper but in a true physical form. He thought of the potions book last year, of the junk that the Room of Requirement had provided for him to hide it in. He thought of the bust he had used to mark the spot, a bust that he had adorned with a wig and a tiara…

"I've found it."

"What do you mean?" asked Hermione. "You've found what?"

"Ravenclaw's diadem," said Harry. "I know where it is."

"You do?" Luna's eyes lit up. "We've been looking for it for centuries and you know where it is?"

"Yes." Harry's mind reeled frantically as he tried to think of a way to stop Luna following them. "Well, no. Something similar but not the mythical giver of ultimate knowledge. Thanks Luna, you're amazing."

She shrugged her acknowledgement as the trio scrambled out of their seats and made for the library doors, a fervour of excitement spurring them along, much to Madame Pince's chagrin.

"Good luck," called Luna after them.

"So do you know where it is or not?" panted Ron as they hurried through the school at a pace that could not quite be called a run.

"Yes, I know where it is. I just didn't think it would be a good idea for Luna to come with us if we end up having to destroy the thing that her house has been searching for since time immemorial."

"Ah, yes, a wise decision. So where is it?"

"The Room of Requirement."

"What?" Ron's voice could not have sounded more disbelieving if he had tried, and Harry explained the tale of the potion book to him. Ron remained unconvinced.

"But if that's the case, what about Dobby's warning? At the beginning of the year he'd told you that there was an evil in the school, and it was the locket. Surely he'd be aware of the presence of another horcrux. That's what's been making me sceptical of the idea of one being here in Hogwarts from the start."

"That's true." Harry stopped short in the corridor in front of where the entrance to the Room of Requirement. Suddenly his theory seemed to crumple in on itself, back to square one.

"Not necessarily," said Hermione. Her brow was wrinkled in concentration. "Dobby said that there was a _new_ evil in the school, but the Room of Requirement's been here since the castle was built, and people have no doubt been using it for as long. The horcrux could have been here for fifty years; in which case the evil's been here for so long that the house elves are used to it and it's nothing new for them."

"But why would You-Know-Who hide something in a place as obvious and accessible as the Room of Requirement?" protested Ron. "It just doesn't make any sense!"

"He probably didn't know what it was," said Hermione. "He probably thought he'd discovered something amazing that no-one else knew about. And naturally, that makes it an obvious place to hide a horcrux. Added to the fact that no-one would ever suspect Dumbledore of harbouring such a dangerous piece of magic, whether he knew it was there or not."

Ron conceded this point and they fell into silence, Harry wondering how on Earth he could get back to the room he required. 'I need the room full of junk' and 'I need the room with the horcrux in' didn't sound right. Finally he struck gold.

_I need to find my book._

The room's door appeared in front of them and they entered into the glory of clutter where students had been hiding their contraband for hundreds of years. It did not take Harry long to find the bust once more, the diadem still perched precariously on top of it.

"Is that it?" asked Ron.

Harry nodded. After all this time, they had found a horcrux in the blink of an eye. As Luna had said, it had been under their noses all along.

* * *

**Note2: **And now all that remains is to destroy it, but I spy some trouble on the horizon. Voldemort's been counting his horcruxes and found himself a few short, and he's not altogether happy with this... With that little teaser in mind, I bid you adieu till the next update!


	44. Worthless Junk

**Note: **Well folks, I'm BACK! Thank you so much for putting up with the very long wait. But I'm back in the UK, I'm back in the groove and I'm back on FF. I've seen the final film and that gave me the impetus I needed to get writing again.

**Note2: **I sat down to write this chapter and it occurred to me that I haven't written anything from Draco's point of view before. His character gets me exceedingly confused but there's a got to be a first time for everything so I hope I do him justice.

* * *

**Chapter Forty-Four**

**Worthless Junk**

If Draco Malfoy had not been convinced of the Dark Lord's complete lack of sanity before, then he was definitely convinced now. After their last meeting, he had taken Draco on one side and tasked him with finding an item of paramount importance and returning it to his master unscathed. A daunting task in itself, this would not have given him so much food for thought had the item in question not been a _tiara_.

But still, a direct order was a direct order, and Draco knew that he of all people was in the least position to disobey. He sighed; before Christmas he had almost been able to convince himself that he was vaguely safe at Hogwarts and that the meetings that the Dark Lord appeared to call at all hours were his only contact with the outside world and the ranks to which he so reluctantly belonged. When he had first been called upon to take the Mark, Draco had been more nervous than honoured, all truth be told, but who did he have to confide this fear? For the majority of his sixth year at Hogwarts, Draco had felt horribly alone. The Mark that he wielded did not bring him respect or friendship, but rather fear. He was not the only student in his year whose father bore the Mark, and during the fifth year after the Dark Lord's return, they had talked idly of what was to come in the new world. But as soon as he had become part of the force that was to shape that new world, he lost what little companionship he had always had. Suddenly, it was all very real; too real for Crabbe and Goyle and too real for Draco himself. It was there that the sword of the power he now wielded made its double edge known. If he was to use his Mark to inspire fear and subservience as his master did, then he could not confess his debilitating fear to those he hoped to control. He could not have both worlds, so Draco, ever practical, had chosen the one that would help him most, and in doing so, borne the burdens of his fears alone. There was Snape of course, but for the most part, Draco did not trust his former house master, and the wariness had remained even after Dumbledore's death.

As a result of this mutual ostracising, Draco found it much easier to be alone than around those who feared and loathed him in equal measure. Much like the defence teacher, he had become somewhat reclusive, actively shunning the contact of his fellow Slytherins whenever he could. It was easier than trying to wear a mask all the time, but he knew that it could not last forever. He would have to face up to the consequences of the Mark sooner or later. Today he had to retrieve a tiara, but what would he have to do tomorrow? He had already proved admirably that he could not kill or torture; and what other function did a Death Eater have? He thought back to Christmas and shivered; knowing that Aunt Bellatrix had endured the Dark Lord's ire after the incident at Gringotts was small consolation. Her slide out of his good books had increased her sadism tenfold, and now there was no Rodolphus to act as a mediator between them as he had done in the past.

By this stage he had reached the doors of the Room of Requirement, where the Dark Lord had told him to look, and he pushed those thoughts to the back of his mind. As soon as he had entered the room however, the self-doubt returned. There was no way that he would ever find the thing in there. In a room full of deceptively worthless-looking junk where he had spent so much of his time last year, it would be like trying to find a needle in a haystack, and how did he know, in this room full of deceptively worthless junk, whether the thing that he was looking for was still intact amongst all the broken magic?

"Accio tiara. Accio diadem."

He hadn't expected it to bring anything but it had been worth a try. Draco sat down heavily on the floor and rested his head in his hands. At least the Dark Lord had not given him a specific time limit and had merely told him to bring the diadem as soon as possible. If 'as soon as possible' was in three months, after he'd turned this room upside down to find the blasted thing, then so be it. But somehow, Draco was certain that the Dark Lord would not be that patient. There was no way that he was going to get to the bottom of it alone, but who could he turn to for help having shut everyone out? His only option was Snape. A lot of wild theories ran through his head as to very good reasons why he shouldn't confide in the deputy head for the second time that year, but when he got to the idea that Snape was in fact Professor Sinistra under the effect of polyjuice potion – after all, Draco had never seen them in the same room together – he came to the conclusion that he had entered the realms of hysteria and that a return to rational thinking would be prudent. He lay back on the floor and closed his eyes, trying to find someone to blame for his predicament. Naturally, the first culprit that came to mind was his father., but seeing the battered and broken man who now stood as a shadow of his former self, Draco found it hard to lay the burden at his door. If only none of this had ever happened. If only the Dark Lord had never existed. All of a sudden, a remote part of Siberia or Poland seemed very inviting, but then again, when one saw how many of the Dark Lord's followers had originally come from beyond the former iron curtain, his reach was not to be underestimated. And of course, if Draco suddenly followed up on his previously undiscovered desire to visit Dolohov's homeland, he had to think of those he left behind. His father wouldn't last a week and whilst his mother had the advantage of a wand, he couldn't see her surviving all that much longer. The thought made him feel sick and he sat bolt upright, waited a moment for the nausea to pass and then got to his feet. It was time to stop feeling sorry for himself, stop contemplating moonlight flits to Warsaw and start doing something constructive to keep them all alive until the next time, however soon that might be.

Draco knew that he'd never get anywhere with just random searching. He was certain that several first years must have found their way into this room and never come out again, so it was perfectly plausible that he and indeed a diadem could do the same. It was time to swallow his doubts, pride and polyjuice theories and return to seek Snape's guidance, however uneasy it made him feel. He cast a final glance around the room to check that the thing hadn't been hiding in plain sight all this time and did a double take at the ugly bust on top of a nearby desk. A vague memory of last year surfaced and Draco was certain that the statue had been wearing a tiara before, but perhaps paranoia was driving him to remember things falsely and seeing diadems where there were none. Shaking his head he left the room and began to make his way towards Snape's office, despite the late hour at which he was choosing to call. The route was long and winding and he walked as one condemned, feeling the unforgiving glares of the portraits on the back of his neck. A voice and running footsteps made him stop and slip into the shadows of the nearest doorway. He hadn't planned on meeting anyone on this mission and he wondered who was doing moonlight wanderings. It was three in the morning; the castle should have been fast asleep. All too soon, the voices made it apparent whose paths Draco's had crossed with.

"Harry, there's no use in trying to run away from it." Hermione's voice.

"Yeah mate, you should talk about it. It might help us. It might help you." Ron.

"Ron, you heard the majority of it, you shouldn't need a replay."

"Well, to be honest, all I heard was a lot of laughing, like last time. And cursing."

"That's pretty much all it consisted of."

"Harry, please. These insights into Voldemort's mind have helped us before. Maybe they can help us again."

Draco's brow furrowed and he moved closer, his tread silent on the flagged floor. He could just make out the shadows of the trio silhouetted behind a pillar. Harry had a direct link to the Dark Lord's mind? Draco knew that there was something odd about him but that was just… something else entirely.

"I don't think so, not this time. This time he was in my head, not the other way round. Once the link was open he went in for a look. It was intentional, and then he just didn't bother switching off the connection. Or maybe he thought he had. Maybe he wanted me to see what came next, I don't know, but I know that I didn't initiate anything." There was a long silence. "He knows we've destroyed the diadem."

"Harry!" Hermione's shadow hit the shoulder of Harry's. "We've got to tell Professor McGonagall straight away! That's…"

"Let him speak," said Ron, although there was a definitely panicked tone in his voice now. "Five minutes won't make a difference."

Draco digested the meaning of the words and his nausea increased tenfold, the blood running cold in his veins. If the diadem was destroyed, if he had failed to return it…

"The connection was open, he found out about the diadem and then he seemed to stop searching; at least, it didn't feel like he was probing. He was more interested in the diadem than anything else, I think he sent Draco on a mission to get it."

Ron snorted.

"Good thing we got there first then."

"Harry, are you sure? I mean, if he knows we're hunting horcruxes…"

"I've got no idea what he knows," snapped Harry. "I try to stay out of his mind as much as possible, on your instructions. Maybe he was concerned about the diadem considering what had happened in Gringotts at Christmas. Anyway, he saw that it had been destroyed, he got angry and then he seconded Bellatrix for a stress-relieving torture excursion."

"Isn't Draco still in the castle?" asked Hermione.

"It wasn't Draco, it was his father. They…"

"… locked him in his own cellar and forced my mother to watch," Draco finished, coming out of his hiding place, blind anger and fear moving his body and mouth as his mind could think of nothing but getting home as fast as possible and taking his family with him to Siberia. "He's been living in my house since July," he added bitterly as the trio scrambled to their feet at his unexpected appearance. "It's happened so often now that you'd think we'd be used to it."

Draco was not quite sure what happened next. All he knew was that there were three wands pointing at him and in that moment, he couldn't care less. They disarmed him almost before he had started to formulate the words of the curse, but Draco knew that this time, such an action was not going to be the end of the fight. Harry had destroyed the diadem that Draco had been meant to rescue. He had, through some unearthly connection with the Dark Lord that Draco could not begin to fathom, seen the consequences of this action. And if Ron's words were anything to go by, Harry had seen Draco's father tortured for his son's failure, and he had laughed…

He flew at his nemesis without really knowing what he was doing; he had never before resorted to physical violence as he had always had Crabbe and Goyle to do that for him. This time he was alone, and he knew that however he did it, his goal was simply to cause Harry as much pain as he could.

However much the move surprised him, causing him to drop his own wand, Harry gave as good as he got and the two wizards were soon locked in combat on the cold floor.

"Harry! Stop it!" Hermione's pleas fell on deaf ears. "Harry, we have to tell Professor McGonagall!"

"Can't you do something?" Draco heard Ron ask. "Isn't there a spell or something?"

But whatever Hermione had attempted, if anything, it did nothing to break up the fight, which came to a natural pause as Harry's fist made contact with Draco's nose with a sickening crunch and the Gryffindor moved away, picking up his wand.

Draco wiped the blood from his nose.

"You have no idea, do you? You go along in your own little righteous world being Harry Potter, the chosen one, Dumbledore's golden boy; everyone worships the ground you walk on but you've got no idea." He shook his head. "You've got no idea what it's like knowing that you're the only one standing between _him_ and your family; knowing that it's not you who'll suffer if you go wrong but them; knowing that you can't do anything except what he tells you to otherwise he'll kill father and torture your mother. Of course you don't, it doesn't even come into the question for you because you have no family."

This was not the first time that Draco had commented on Harry's being orphan; this fact had been the first chink in his armour that the Slytherin had identified and put aside for later use. But was the first time that there had been any meaning behind the words other than pure malice. He was so frustrated at his situation that he wanted to make the others see what he had to go through in any way possible. The time for building walls was over; Draco was far too angry and far too desperately scared of what was to come from his master to try and present a cool façade to his lesser enemies now. He lunged at Harry again but before he could make contact, the force of a spell threw him backwards and he landed staring at the ceiling, winded.

"What is going on here?"

The voice had spoken at a perfectly normal volume but it still managed to carry the same power as if the words had been bellowed in his ears. Draco looked up to find Snape standing between them, with arms folded and an expression of quiet fury on his face, and he froze instinctively.

"I do not expect to have to tear apart two wizards who have both come of age and who know that brawling of all kinds, both magical and physical, is beneath them. So before I take all the points that Gryffindor and Slytherin have earned this year, I shall repeat my question." His voice took on the same icy, dangerous tone that Draco recognised all too well from the mouth of the Dark Lord. "What is going on here?"

For a moment, Draco wondered what earthly point there was in answering. Snape's eyes were boring into his own with an intensity that the younger Slytherin had never seen before, and he had no doubt that every single thought he had ever had was now being replayed for the deputy head's entertainment. Draco was no stranger to legilimency, but he had never been able to master the opposing force, and he had never been able to master the seemingly simple technique of stopping his mind from thinking about the very things that he did not want anyone to see when someone was reading his thoughts. An image of Madame Rosier forcing antidotes down his father's throat on Christmas Day flitted in front of his eyes and Snape gave the tiniest of twitches.

The silence reigned on, all-encompassing, and the professor broke eye contact with Draco and turned to the others.

"I see," he said coolly after a moment's more contemplation. "If no-one is going to be forthcoming with the truth, then I shall have to take more drastic measures."

Before he could elaborate on the drastic measures that he was thinking of, the life rushed back into Draco's legs and he bolted. He didn't care what Snape did to him; it could hardly be worse than the punishment that the Dark Lord could mete out. All he cared about was getting home as quickly as possible.

* * *

**Note3: **Well, hopefully I haven't been too out of practice during my absence. Hopefully you shouldn't have to wait another two months for the next update but the last time I said that, well, it didn't turn out so well. But we can always hope! Coming up on C&I: Professor McGonagall insists that she wasn't asleep, Professor Snape admits he isn't as young as he used to be and Madame Pomfrey blows a gasket...


	45. The Truth Will Always Out

**Note:** *Kimmeth duly hangs her head in shame.* I do apologise for this stupidly long wait. I have no-one to blame but myself. And I've decided that I am going to stop saying anything about when updates may or may not be coming as whatever I say seems fated to end in disaster. But, on the upside, things are looking up. Firstly, I'm back at uni. Secondly, I am at a productive level of stressed-ness. And thirdly, courses don't start for another two weeks so whilst I'm not checking none of the coffee shops have disappeared in my year's absence, or practicing for my oral exam, I have all the time in the world to write… Anyway, thank you for waiting for me and I hope you enjoy the update.

**Note2: **Erm, this is where things start veering in a very different direction from the original plot. (Well yes, I know they've done so already.) It was probably fear of taking this comparatively huge step that stopped me updating sooner. Do not say I didn't warn you.

**Last time on C&I: **Harry has just had a dream in which Voldemort found out that the diadem, which he had trusted Draco to bring to safety, is no more. Late at night the trio and Draco have come across each other, and fisticuffs have ensued, broken up by an exceedingly unimpressed Snape…

* * *

**Chapter Forty-Five**

**The Truth Will Always Out**

For a few moments, Harry could do nothing but sit slightly dazed on the cold stone floor of the corridor and marvel at the absolute absurdity of the situation that he had found himself in. It was completely surreal and if he didn't know better from the smarting pain under his ribcage then he might have thought it a dream. A couple of yards from him, he saw Malfoy scrambling to his feet and making to bolt, and between them, Snape, a formidable spectre who seemed to have appeared out of thin air to stop their brawl. His soulless gaze was focussed directly on Hermione, who was opening and closing her mouth, trying desperately to think of an excuse or a viable explanation and failing miserably. Harry could only hope that she had recognised what Snape was doing and was taking necessary precautions – there was no doubt that he was using legilimency on her to establish the cause of the scene, since Harry's own thoughts were too scattered from the winding he had received during the course of the fight. Shouting 'mentally recite the twelve uses of dragon's blood backwards to distract him' wouldn't have been very profitable in his situation.

Thankfully, in that moment, Snape _was_ distracted, by Malfoy taking off at full pelt along the corridor away from them. The teacher turned and cast in one swift motion and at any other time, Harry would have given good galleons to see Malfoy dragged back along the corridor as if lassoed, but the spell didn't connect. Though not particularly strong in a physical fight, Malfoy was extremely fast. Snape gave an exhalation that expressed a mixture of anger and sheer exasperation, and set off after his student.

"Malfoy!" he yelled down the corridor. "Come back here!"

Harry felt someone pat his shoulder and looked up to see that Ron was offering him a hand off the floor.

"Come on," said his friend as he pulled Harry to his feet. "Let's get out of here."

But Harry did not truly hear Ron. He kept staring along the corridor after the two retreating Slytherins, and he felt something snap. The scene was an almost familiar one, and Harry thought back to the end of the last school year, to the fateful night atop the lightning-struck tower.

A surge of anger rushed through Harry's veins, and he could no longer hear the voices of his friends urging him to come away, to forget what had happened, to say if he was injured from his scuffle. The blood was pounding in his ears, blocking out all sounds but the thoughts in his head, telling him that this was it, that it was finally the moment.

Harry had waited a long time to seek any kind of retribution for Dumbledore's death. He had never yet been in a position where he had been able to, and the small voice in the back of his mind that sounded remarkably like Hermione, or Ginny, had told him that attempting to make the opportunities for himself would be a very, very bad idea. But now, the chance was there, for the taking. It was almost exactly as it had been the year before, only this time, Harry would make sure that he succeeded and that everything was finished.

"Harry, no."

Hermione's voice, clear and sharp and loud although spoken at no more than a whisper, suddenly cut through the fog of red mist that was slowly enveloping him. He turned to see her shaking her head, and he knew that she knew what he was thinking. Ron's face was neutral, but he had long known that he would be more likely to side with Hermione.

He turned again towards Snape's retreating back as he passed out of sight around the end of the corridor. Soon both he and Malfoy would be lost to them in the labyrinthine school. It was now or never.

A vision flashed in front of his eyes, two words resounding in his ears.

"_Severus, please."_

Harry set off after Dumbledore's murderer.

"HARRY!"

This time Hermione really was screaming, and Harry could hear two sets of footsteps following him, no-one caring who saw them, or found them, or whether they woke up the entire rest of the castle in their quest: Snape to stop Malfoy, Harry to stop Snape and Ron and Hermione to stop Harry. All the angry Gryffindor wanted was to do what he should have done those many months before. A small part of him was certain that he had no more right than anyone else to exact revenge upon the former potions master, but another part of him was leading him on, justifying his actions. Who else had been there when the terrible deed had taken place? Who else had seen the pleading look on Dumbledore's face, heard his final words?

He was catching up to the other two now, he could hear snatches of their words here and there, and as he hurtled down the main staircase he saw Snape rush out of the front doors, in the opposite direction to the Slytherin quarters.

"Harry, this is stupid and ridiculous and do you even know what you're trying to do?" exclaimed Hermione from behind him, panting. Harry didn't reply, he was too focussed on his goal.

The cold air on his face hit him like a wall and slowed him slightly, knocking some rational thought into his mind. Did he really know what he was doing? About to charge, in his pyjamas no less, into combat with a known murderer… It certainly didn't look an exceedingly considered plan, if it was a plan at all.

But in that moment, as Harry continued to shorten the distance between himself and his quarry, none of it mattered. It was as if a different Harry had taken over, the angry Harry that he normally tried to keep as pressed down as possible for the simple reason that it made getting on with life a lot easier, and he continued his pursuit, ignorant of the probable consequences of what he was about to do. Up ahead, he saw Malfoy force the gates open by magic, escape out of the boundaries and disappear to who-cared-where.

Snape slowed as he saw Malfoy disapparate, and he shook his head in despair, allowing Harry to close the gap between them.

"And so you seal your fate, Draco, and I cannot help you in whatever waits for you at home," he murmured. Harry took no time to contemplate the meaning of the words, and let loose a curse now that he was finally within a decent range for the spell to have half a chance of connecting.

Snape heard him, and ducked before turning to face his opponent. He did not attack back, just as he had not attacked directly after Dumbledore's death.

"Potter, I am unafraid of defending myself but if it is a full-scale duel that you are foolishly hoping for, you will be disappointed."

"You're still a coward, Snape," Harry goaded, still attempting to curse him and still having his attempts shielded or reflected. He remembered the words he had spoken on that fateful night that had finally pushed Snape into action. "You hide away in your office and never show your traitorous face because you're scared of what'll happen to you when you emerge…"

"Harry!" screamed Hermione, running up behind him and attempting to pull him away from the one-sided duel. "Harry, have you gone insane?"

"Harry, he's not worth it!" yelled Ron, coming to assist Hermione.

"Well someone's got to do something!" Harry snapped, his already flighty concentration now split between trying to engage Snape in combat and trying to fight off the restraining hands of his friends. "Someone has to get justice for Dumbledore!"

"Yeah mate, we know," panted Ron, "but that doesn't mean it automatically has to be you."

Harry was about to open his mouth to argue his corner further but before he could do so, the entire tableau was interrupted by a new voice, roaring from behind them.

"ENOUGH!"

It was the shock that Harry needed to get him to see sense and turn round. The voice belonged to the person that he had least expected to see running towards them with a face like thunder and a wand outstretched, demanding to know what was going on without words.

Madame Pomfrey arrived at the group, her eyes furious and unblinking. She did not lower her wand, even after both Snape and Harry had stowed theirs.

"Madame Pomfrey, we can explain," began Ron, unsteadily, but Harry knew that if there was any explaining to be done then it would not be by him. The entire escapade could be summed up in three words: hot-headed Gryffindor recklessness. He couldn't even claim that it had seemed like a good idea at the time, because it hadn't. It had just been an idea, one that had raised its head and refused to leave.

"This has gone far enough," said the mediwitch, shaking her head in deep disappointment. "If he didn't accept it before then he must do now." She looked at the four, in control of them all, even Snape whom she had known as a pupil and was not as afraid of as she might have been despite his reputation. "Head's office," she said simply. "Now."

Harry did not know whether her remark had been addressed to Snape or not, but he followed them regardless, constantly exchanging looks with the healer that made Harry believe that they were having an entire conversation without either of them opening their mouths. No-one spoke on the way to McGonagall's office. Ron was staring into the middle distance; Harry was certain that he would have been paying intense attention to the ceiling had he not had to watch where he was going. Hermione was lost in thought, her brow furrowed as she no doubt attempted to think of an explanation for the headmistress. Harry simply didn't know what to think. All too soon, they had reached their destination.

Professor McGonagall lifted her head of the desk with a startled murmur of what sounded like 'I-wasn't-asleep!', as Madame Pomfrey flung the head's office door open without warning and she stormed in, the little convoy following her with slightly less ferocity.

"Please excuse my waking you, Minerva, but I'm sure you'll understand in a moment."

"Poppy, what on earth is going on?" asked the headmistress, removing her spectacles and rubbing her eyes before replacing the glasses on her nose.

"There's no time for explanations now. This has gone on long enough. It's a miracle that we managed to get this far without any incidents." Professor McGonagall looked past Madame Pomfrey's elbow at the trio gathered in the doorway and Harry could feel her gaze boring into him. He would have seriously considered turning tail and running in a very un-Gryffindor-like manner had he not known that Snape was standing grim and statue-like behind him. The headmistress sighed.

"I might have known. Why is it always you three?" she muttered under her breath before turning back to the nurse. "I'll leave the explanation in your hands, Poppy. I can see you want the satisfaction of venting your frustration."

Harry tried not to show his utter confusion, but a glance sideways at Hermione and Ron told him that they were just as in the dark as he was. For a moment he suspected a complex conspiracy in which the school's entire population of teachers had been replaced with polyjuice replicas. His alarm must have shown as Hermione rolled her eyes, the action serving as a partial reassurance. There was a perfectly reasonable explanation. There was almost always a perfectly reasonable explanation.

Madame Pomfrey took a step back from the desk and spoke to the portrait that hung above it.

"Albus, I know that you aren't asleep, so will you please grace us with your presence and explain to your most trusted students what has been happening at Hogwarts for the past year and a half under all our noses?"

Dumbledore opened his eyes.

"Poppy," he began, his voice troubled, "you know the reasons why the secret must be kept."

"It's been kept long enough! When the students start attacking the staff for reasons that the rest of the world sees, however misguidedly, as justified, then it is time for you to weigh up what you hope to gain from your silence against the very real probability of your losing something from it."

Professor McGonagall looked at the trio again and seemed to put two and two together in that moment, sighing and resting her head in her hands. Madame Pomfrey paused; Harry didn't think that he had ever seen the mediwitch so quietly angry before. She had been outraged and indignant, certainly, but the depth of frustration that was apparent in her voice, Harry had never heard that before. "Albus," she continued, her initial vehemence vented. "I said at the beginning of the year, when I first came into this knowledge, that I didn't think it was a good idea to keep it hidden from so many for so long." She glanced over her shoulder at Harry, Ron, Hermione and Snape. "You've trusted and burdened these people with so much; don't you think it's common courtesy to allow them the whole truth?"

Dumbledore did not reply for a long time.

"Severus?" he asked finally.

"The decision is, as always, in your hands, Professor," said Snape coolly. "I make no suggestions either way."

The portrait sighed.

"You're right Poppy, there's only so long that such a great charade can stay in place. Harry, Ron, Hermione, as you have no doubt gathered, a lot has been kept from you this year, at my insistence and possibly against my better judgement. However, I feel that things will be a lot clearer if viewed first hand rather than explained with the risk of leaving out something of vital importance. Minerva, if you could…"

Professor McGonagall nodded and rose from her chair, opening the cupboard that housed the pensieve and carefully levitating it over to the desk before selecting a number of memory vials from the shelves. She picked out four to begin with, then toyed with one of them before shaking her head and replacing it. Dumbledore seemed to approve her decision and made no comment. Madame Pomfrey, satisfied that her ire had borne fruit, turned and made for the door.

"Good luck," she said to the trio. "I hope that everything will be clearer now. Severus?"

Snape nodded his accord and they exited the office, leaving Harry even more confused than he had been before. Up until a few minutes ago, the status quo of the castle had been relatively easy to define. Snape was a traitor teaching under law from the Ministry and ostracised by the rest of the staff, but suddenly he had developed an unanticipated camaraderie with Madame Pomfrey of all people, and the circumstances were not as clear cut as they had been. Moreover, they had ostensibly never been what Harry had perceived them to be.

"Harry, Ron, Hermione." Dumbledore's portrait was speaking to them again, and he motioned for them to come closer towards the desk and take a seat in the chairs that Professor McGonagall had drawn up for them. The headmistress herself withdrew into the corner of the room, unnoticeable but undeniably there, watching over the proceedings with caution.

"I left these memories for Professor McGonagall to find after I died," explained Dumbledore. "They should hopefully serve as a vaguely understandable basis."

"But Professor," Harry began, "what's…"

"Patience, Harry, patience," said Dumbledore. "View the memories first and then I will gladly answer any of your remaining questions."

There was silence for a moment. Eventually Hermione took over and emptied the three vials into the pensieve.

"You first," she said nervously.

Harry took a deep breath, acutely aware that what he was about to see would change his outlook completely, and he plunged into the pensieve…

X

It took a long time for Harry to digest all that he had seen in the past few minutes, so much information and clarification squashed into such a short space of time that everything was even more blurred and confused than before. One thing stood out amongst the haze of images and words. Snape had been Dumbledore's man all along. Whilst no-one could say that Dumbledore had faked his own death, he had certainly orchestrated its circumstances very finely. That was the fact that had been hidden from them for so long. That one fact, so easy when expressed in words, had changed everything.

"But why?" Harry asked, hoping that the single simple question covered all the varied queries that needed to be answered before he left the room.

"Why didn't I tell you that I was living on borrowed time for the majority of the last year? Well, unfortunately, that would have put paid to the rest of our intricately laid plans," said Dumbledore, the faintest ghost of a twinkle flashing in his eyes before he returned to seriousness. "I think that your most pressing query, however, is why we have kept this from you for so long and would have kept it from you indefinitely had fate not intervened." Dumbledore paused. "As the head of both the school and the Order, I have had to make many unpleasant decisions for the greater good, the mysterious and dangerous notion that the greater good is. This was one such decision. Of course it would have made everyone's lives, not least of all Severus's, far more comfortable if the truth had been generally known, but at the same time, we must consider Professor Snape's valuable position in the ranks of our enemies. By seemingly murdering me, he has assured a place close to Voldemort that has helped Minerva greatly in providing intelligence for the Order. It was thanks to his intervention that you were brought safely to the Burrow on the night that you were, you know. Not only do we know exactly what is planned, we can lay false trails of our own, and we know which of our enemies may insubordinate or surrender at any point."

Harry thought of Draco disapparating outside the Hogwarts gates and wondered whether he had met his fate at home as Snape had predicted or whether he would be coming back to the school any time soon after his unceremonious departure from it.

"It would have been impractical and indeed completely impossible to try and inform the whole school and the whole Order of the true state of affairs when Voldemort has spies everywhere, spies that are most definitely on his payroll and not ours. Such an action would have placed Professor Snape in more danger than remaining silent would have done."

"Until his students start trying to kill him to avenge you," muttered Phineas Nigellus from his frame.

"That will do, Phineas," said Dumbledore sternly. "In such extreme cases of life and death, a happy medium is impossible and you know it."

Phineas Nigellus retreated from his portrait, back to Grimmauld Place, still chuntering under his breath.

"How many people know?" asked Hermione. Her face was concentrated, determined, as if she was almost at the solution of a particularly difficult problem. Although, on the surface, everything seemed to be clear and explained, Harry was still floundering helplessly. It was so deceptively straightforward that he thought he must have missed something. Nothing in magic was ever that simple.

"Those in this room, plus Professor Snape naturally, and Madame Pomfrey."

"And I believe that Professor Babbling has worked out the crux of the truth for herself, although whether she has the full details remains unknown." Professor McGonagall came out from her niche and sat down behind the desk once more. "She has lived through much magical warfare, however, and knows better than to jump to conclusions where dark magic is so deeply intertwined."

The headmistress looked at the three students in front of her, and Harry could see the dark circles under her eyes. He thought of the great and heavy weight of the secret that she had been carrying around almost unaided since the end of the last school year, the weight that had just been passed onto his shoulders so that he too could bear its torturous load. This was why, or at least this must have been one of the reasons why, she had wanted him to return to Hogwarts and not go off on his own.

"So now you know." Professor McGonagall sighed. "I only wish that I knew what to say in the circumstances. Even now I am wondering whether this was the correct course of action to take, but I do not know what the alternative could have been."

Harry wondered. If Madame Pomfrey had not seen the battle in the grounds, if she had not looked out of her window for that single split second, who knew what might have happened? Harry thought, in hindsight, that he probably would not have been able to kill Snape, but at the time he had been so determined that had the professor attempted to escape and disapparate, he would not have been at all surprised at himself had he tried to go after, and then… The possible consequences of his actions did not bear thinking about, but at the same time, no-one, not least of all himself, seemed to be entirely sure that the course that events had taken was the most beneficial one.

"Harry."

Dumbledore was speaking to them again. Harry looked up and met his gaze.

"As Madame Pomfrey said, I have burdened you with so much and told you so very little. I should have given you the courtesy of the truth much earlier, but I need to know that you understand why I did not."

Harry nodded.

"I understand. I think."

"Then if there is nothing more you wish to know, I suggest you return to your beds to garner what precious little sleep you can after everything that has happened tonight. Should anything else occur to you that you wish to ask, I will of course oblige. There is one thing more that I must impress upon you, and that is that no-one else must know, at least not until the time is right."

The trio nodded in unison, once more three young magicians bound to secrecy, bound to knowledge that the rest of the world, much less the rest of the school, did not know.

Professor McGonagall rose from her chair.

"I shall escort you back to Gryffindor Tower, lest you run into difficulties."

Harry didn't know if she truly meant running into Filch or if she was worried that despite everything, he might go looking for Snape to finish the job he had so shoddily begun earlier in the night. As they passed the doors to the hospital wing and Harry made out the undertones of conversation between Madame Pomfrey and Snape, he wondered what would happen now. Ostensibly, nothing had changed. As Dumbledore had said, no-one else could know. But now, Harry found the light in which he saw the potions master changing. What he had seen in the pensieve had given him more than enough food for thought for one night, but above everything else, Harry wondered at Dumbledore's capacity for deception on such a grand scale. If he had kept this from them, what else might he have hidden for the greater good?

* * *

**Note3: **The memories are the same ones Minerva viewed back in chapter one, with one left out. More on that later. These memories are in turn basically the same as Snape's from DH but from Dumbledore's side of the equation, so I did not show them here or in chapter one as I did not want to simply repeat.

**Note4: **So we're all friends again, well, friends might be pushing it but we're all on the same side again. Yay! But, as always, there's something bad on the horizon. No! Hogwarts, the last haven of calm in the middle of the storm, is about to have a severe shake-up. But first, let's check up on the Death Eaters, who are on strike until they get higher pay and a better dental plan. No, not really, but they certainly aren't too happy…


	46. In the Midst of Chaos

**Note: **What's this? An update after only a week's wait? I must be getting back in the groove. There is a tiny, tiny flashback but this is a linear chapter. Oh, and **moredancing**, there's a special reference for you in there.

* * *

**Chapter Forty-Six**

**In the Midst of Chaos**

Walden opened the door of the Manor's drawing room with a shaking hand. If he didn't already know the terrible consequences of deserting the corps, he'd be out of there like a shot, and that was saying something. Walden was from good Scottish stock; it took a lot to faze a Highlands man, but fazed he had indeed been by what he had just witnessed. He had only been able to stand, speechless and staring, as Narcissa had screamed herself out of her hysteria and taken as much control of the situation as she could muster. He had helped her get Lucius out of the cellar and up the stairs, but when good old Cam had come in and taken over proceedings, Walden had taken quiet leave of them and gone to search out nerve-calming liquor, certain that he was going to be of no use whatsoever in his current state. He opened the drinks cabinet and pawed through it, knowing what he was searching for and eventually finding it. His homemade moonshine, stronger and more dangerous than anything money could buy. He pulled the bottle out from the back of the cupboard, uncorked it and took a swig, feeling the burn all the way down his throat into his stomach. He immediately felt better, and he looked down at the bottle. Since he had gifted it to Lucius in the first place, it wasn't really immoral to take it back in a time of great crisis, was it? After all, Lucius was not in any state to drink it himself at that point in time. It had all been so _sudden_. One minute he and Bellatrix were politely ignoring each other, on the point of leaving the Manor for their respective homes, and the next the Dark Lord had reappeared in a fury that Walden had rarely seen the likes of before and they were all in the cellar, having collected the house owners on their way.

His task had been to keep a hold of Narcissa and force her to watch whilst the other two mauled her husband; at a deeper level it was to stop her doing anything irretrievably stupid that would have brought the Dark Lord's wrath onto her. It was one that he had nominally inherited from Rodolphus after Christmas but had not, until this moment, been required to perform. Simply holding onto someone who was struggling away from you at every movement, even with the aid of magical binds, was a far more difficult duty than it seemed at face value, mainly because Walden himself did not want to have to see what he was making Narcissa witness. He and Lucius were old friends, schoolfriends, they went back a long way and they spent many alcohol-fuelled evenings in fond remembrance of this long acquaintance. He'd known Narcissa almost as long. He could still hear the Dark Lord's voice even after his master had long left the building.

"_Look at your husband, Madame Malfoy. Look at the proud lord of Malfoy Manor, begging for mercy from the master at whose right hand he once stood. How the mighty have fallen. LOOK AT ME!" _

_Narcissa made no move to obey and the Dark Lord's cold eyes alighted on her warder. _

_Walden raised his eyes to heaven and hoped that he would not be thought less of for what he was about to do. _

"_I'm sorry," he whispered, and he placed his wand under Narcissa's chin to force her head up, to force her to face the scene and her sister's sadistic smile. _

In all honesty, Walden was amazed that his hostess had not merely ordered him from her home as soon as Bellatrix and the Dark Lord had decided that an unconscious and silent victim was nowhere near as rewarding as a screaming one, and had left in pursuit of other occupations, but Narcissa had done nothing of that ilk, even going so far as to request his assistance.

"You had to do what you had to do," she'd said quietly as they had waited for Camilla to arrive, doing what they could for their patient. "I would have done the same in your position. There is no point in any more of us suffering than is necessary."

Walden downed another slug of the home-brew and shuddered, unsure whether this was a reaction to the memories or the liquid. He was used to death – he was an executioner by trade for crying out loud – and he was used to torture. But today, a point had come where he had received the briefest glimpses of the futility of it all, and he was terrified, because in all honesty, he knew that nothing would ever change. Even if and when they won this interminable war, he knew that none of this would alter. He knew that Lucius would never regain his previous standing; he knew that Draco would still be a puppet on the Dark Lord's string for this reason. He knew that, even if they besieged Hogwarts and Potter surrendered tomorrow, ten years down the line they'd still be in this same position, if any of them had managed to survive that long. The Dark Lord was in pursuit of power, that much had always been clear and that was the reason that so many had joined him. That was the reason that Walden had joined him, after all, an executioner for the Ministry was never going to achieve greatness. The difference between the Dark Lord and his followers, however, was that the Dark Lord sought the ultimate power over everyone, including his allies. To _require_ followers was one thing; a sign of weakness. To merely _have_ followers, followers whose function was solely to be dominated rather than to stand on any sort of equal footing with their director, was another thing entirely. That was the ultimate power. It was telling, therefore, that they had always referred to him as their master, rather than their leader. It had been set in stone from the moment that he had brought them together: the relationship between the Dark Lord and his subordinates that was destined never to change. He had never intended for any of them to share in his glory, and it pained Walden to know that he had been so blind as to have ignored this fact before.

All that, all of these regretful thoughts, they meant nothing and could do nothing. Walden had taken the Mark and there was now nothing he could do but stand back and go along with all that he had let himself in for when he had joined up. He had never really regretted anything until comparatively recently; he had even accepted his time in Azkaban as a necessary setback on the path to greatness, however much he'd had to endure Carmen's ire on his return. But it was only now that he realised after decades of blindness that the promised greatness would never come, no matter whose side won the inevitable battle.

He brought the bottle to his lips for a third time but before he could drink, he heard the Manor doors flung open and a panicked voice ringing through the halls.

"Mum! Dad!"

Walden set off at a run to intercept Draco before he could reach the master room from which Camilla and Narcissa had still not emerged. The last thing he wanted was for Draco to burst into the middle of that dire scene unannounced, and he cursed the fact that not being a member of the blood family, he could not apparate within the confines of the house. Thankfully he managed to get a line of sight on the young wizard as he flew up the stairs past him and held him still on the landing, feet from his goal. Walden followed him up at a slightly more sedate pace, wand in one hand and bottle in the other.

"Do you have a death wish, boy?" he asked as he neared.

"Let me go," growled Draco, struggling against the invisible hold of the spell. "I know he's been tortured Walden; I want to see my father!"

"No you don't," said Walden bluntly, "not when Cam and your mother are still sorting him out. And I ask you again, do you have a death wish, boy?"

Draco sagged visibly; he had obviously been running for a long time prior to his appearance at the house and the exertion was now beginning to catch up with him.

"What if the Dark Lord had still been here? Did you want to make matters worse for yourself and your family?"

The younger man shook his head.

"I thought not. The safest place for you, young man, is the one you've just left, so next time think twice before you come charging away from it." He softened slightly, hoping that Draco had taken in his words. "I'm not a father, Draco, and my own passed over a long time ago so I cannot hope to know what you're feeling, but believe me. Your parents would say exactly the same thing."

"I know. It's just, it's my fault that this is happening."

"Don't be stupid," said Walden automatically, his tone closed and permitting no further argument. There were many people who were culpable for the situation that they had all found themselves in, all with varying degrees of guilt by action and omission, and to get into an in-depth and convoluted discussion of where the blame could be laid was not what Walden wanted to do, not when the effects of his illegal whiskey were beginning to make themselves known at the back of his skull. Instead, he took in Draco's dishevelled appearance and bleeding nose properly for the first time.

"What did you do, get into a fight with a door?"

"No," said Draco through gritted teeth, "I got into a fight with Harry Potter."

Walden took a step back, astonished and a tiny bit impressed at this unexpected declaration. Like his father, Draco had always had a tendency to hide behind words, and something spectacular must have happened to have caused him to resort to physical blows. Like Walden's had been a moment before, though, his voice was clipped and unwilling to allow more discussion of the undoubtedly fascinating subject, so he did not pry, and instead sat down on the rug outside the master room before the world starting spinning and he fell onto it. He released the hex that had held Draco and the student lowered himself onto the floor beside him, unsurely.

"What are you drinking?" he asked cautiously.

"You don't want to know," said Walden cheerfully. "Want a wee drop?"

Draco declined.

"Probably wise for someone still in your prime. But speaking of such, you might want to clean yourself up a bit or else Cam'll come at you with her brews."

The younger wizard remembered his nose and quickly cast a spell to clear up the blood, but Walden could tell that he'd have a shiner in the morning. After about a minute of not-uncomfortable silence, the door they were unconsciously watching opened and Camilla came out.

"Ok pet, you can go in now," she said, nodding Draco towards the room she had just exited. Draco murmured his thanks and closed the door behind him.

"I should thank you for keeping him out," said Camilla, flopping onto the rug next to Walden in the spot that Draco had just vacated. She looked exhausted but ultimately satisfied. Wordlessly, Walden offered her the bottle of moonshine , and she shook her head in response with a smile.

"It was the least I could do. Everything alright now?" he asked. She nodded.

"He's alive and awake, that's all we can hope for." Camilla yawned. "Walden, I've come to the conclusion that I'm getting far too old to be doing this. I'm nearly a sort of grandmother for crying out loud; sooner or later I'm going to have to call it a day."

"Cam, you're only…"

"I'm nearer sixty than fifty, Walden," the older witch interrupted, "and don't try to deny it or say that I'm wearing well because I know I'm not." She leaned her head on his shoulder and closed her eyes. "I don't want to do this anymore. I just want life to be simple again. Is that really too much to ask? Just me in my little house. Alone. Alexandra happily married off, Finn and Mareike back in Germany, and just me. No-one else to worry about."

"Cam," Walden began unsurely, not quite sure how he should comfort a woman who was, albeit slowly and in a very dignified manner, breaking down completely. "Cam, you must know how much we need you."

"That's the whole point, Walden. I don't want to be needed in this way. Needed as a mother, a grandmother, a godmother, yes. But needed in this way, to protect you all from the man who, all things said and done, made me a widow?" Camilla pressed her hands over her face and Walden guessed that she was crying. He put an arm around her quivering shoulders.

"You are a wonderful witch, and never let it be said otherwise. And I'll tell you more; your Evan would be so proud of you, doing what you do. He always took good care of us, just like you do. If we were out on a job with Evan, then we never held any fear that we might not come home again."

Camilla gave a weak laugh.

"That's where I get it from, I suppose. He was always a mother hen type, worse than me even. I used to joke that even in the height of battle he'd stop and take a headcount to make sure you were all there. And after he died, I was so determined that no-one else should suffer the same fate. Cissy, Carmen, Mareike, Marlena – they're all on the same spiral as I am and I'm damned if my misery's going to have any company." She sighed, wiping her eyes on the back of her hand and regaining her stately composure as quickly as it had left her. She had stayed silent for a good ten minutes and Walden was beginning to think that she had fallen asleep against him before she spoke again. "I'll never stop caring Walden, but at the moment I'm too shattered to move. Could you do me a huge favour?"

Walden nodded.

"Get in touch with home and tell them I won't be back for a while. If you can find me something a little less dangerous than what you're drinking, that would also be appreciated."

Walden laughed and levered himself off the floor, making his way into the drawing room and moving the bottles around until he found something that looked suitable. He poured a generous measure of gin into a glass and topped it off with tonic, setting it on the side as he threw some powder into the fireplace and stuck his head into the flames.

"Cam!"

The exclamation was partly blessed relief and partly a plea for help.

"No, Cam's not…" Walden's eyes grew accustomed to the scene that confronted him and he felt the colour drain from his face. Mareike was curled up on the sofa, her face a grim mask of pain and her hands clasped over her swollen stomach. Walden had no firsthand experience of such matters, but he'd bet his life that the young witch was in labour.

"Oh crumbs," he said faintly. "Hang on, I'll get Cam… Erm, breathe deeply and eat towels, or something…"

Mareike yelled something in her native tongue as he pulled out of the fireplace, and Walden was glad he couldn't understand her. Leaving the gin forgotten on the mantelpiece, he ran through the house to where he had left Camilla sitting on the floor. She had not moved from her spot, her head still drooped on one side where she had been leaning on him.

"Cam, it's Mareike, I think she's having the baby," he panted.

Camilla looked up at him, confused, then she suddenly burst into alert life, springing off the ground as if she'd been shocked and pushing past him in the direction of the drawing room. Considering that she had just been complaining of her age, she could move damned fast when she wanted to. Walden followed her at a jog.

"Damnit damnit damnit damnit!" she exclaimed. "Why today? Oh, it doesn't matter. I'm coming Mareike, hold on. Where in Merlin's name is Finn; he was there when I left…" She broke off her patter and turned to Walden. "If anything else goes wrong here, get Severus. If he's not available, your best bet's Cornwall." She paused. "I'm leaving you to hold the fort here, Walden."

With that she disappeared, and Walden only hoped that she heard his unsure shout of 'good luck' through the flames. He thought about the ominous task that had been placed on his shoulders, that mysterious idea of 'holding the fort'. Walden had never really been put in charge of anything except the execution of dangerous creatures before, and he did not like the sensation of having everything resting upon him, however little he expected anything to go wrong at this stage. He meandered back through the house to where Camilla's patient was recuperating, staring at the bedroom door for a long time before deciding that he had nothing to lose, taking a swig of the moonshine that he had left on the floor and knocking timidly, nudging the rug with his foot to cover the burn mark where a drip of the liquor had splashed onto the priceless flooring. The door opened and Narcissa nodded to him.

"Go on in Walden, I daresay Lucius is sick of Camilla's, Draco's and my mother hen impressions." She looked at the bottle in his hand and raised an eyebrow but said nothing, leaving the two men alone in the room. Lucius was not looking his best, Walden would admit that, but he was at least sitting up and that was significantly better than he had been an hour ago.

"How are you feeling?" he asked brightly, perching on the end of the bed at a respectful distance.

"Unfortunately not dead," replied Lucius grimly. "Is it a law that all medicinal potions have to taste so indescribably vile?"

Walden held up the bottle he was holding.

"Compensation?"

Lucius did not look at all convinced.

"Why do I get the impression that taking you up on the offer might make me infinitely worse?"

"Whiskey is the life of man, Lucius."

"Yes, but your moonshine might well be the death of wizard." Lucius sighed. "Oh, screw it." He took a sip from the bottle and grimaced. "Did you remember to empty the bathtub before you started distilling this batch in it?" he asked.

"I knew there was something. It does taste a wee bit soapy…" He caught Lucius's expression and laughed. "No, there's no soap in it. And I do not make whiskey in a bathtub; magical distilling methods have moved on since those times."

"Yes…"

"Lucius, you are the only man I know who can express so much disbelief and contempt in a single word." Walden took a swig himself. He had to admit, it did taste of soap now that he thought about it. Perhaps Carmen had sabotaged this batch in an attempt to stop his illicit business once and for all. He put the bottle down just in case and returned his attention to Lucius.

"You're not wearing fishnets then?"

"No."

"And you've still…"

"Yes, all my essential body parts are still attached, Walden. I'd half come round by the time Cam arrived, technically I wasn't unconscious."

"Good to hear." They lapsed into silence, neither really knowing what to say to the other in light of everything that had happened in the past few hours, in the past few months even. It was simply nice to have companionship, to know that one was not facing the tortures of the world alone.

"Walden," began Lucius presently, "if, with hindsight, you could go back and do things differently, would you?"

Walden thought for a long time, mulling over everything that he had realised and contemplated in his brooding time alone after Camilla's arrival, and finally evaded the question to garner more thinking time.

"Would you?" he asked.

Lucius nodded but offered no further explanation.

"Then I think I would too. But that's the problem. We can't go back and change the past now. We could never have known what was coming and so we would always have chosen this path."

"We might have guessed," muttered Lucius. "Anyone promising power beyond measure and claiming mastery over death has to be slightly suspicious."

"But to our foolish young minds… Oh, none of it matters now."

"What's done is done," Lucius agreed, and with that firm statement they left the topic by mutual consent. It was undeniably true though, and Walden continued to think about it for a long time after. In the midst of all this terror, they had made their own beds, and no matter how uncomfortable they were, they now had to lie in them. Foreseen or not, they had brought this chaos upon themselves.

* * *

**Note2: **And, as I always do with DE chapters, I ended up making this one about twice as long as usual. It's not my fault, I swear, I just naturally find these ones easier to write for some reason!

**Coming up on C&I: **Kimmeth attempts to do something she has done but once in the past and not at all during C&I: writing properly from Voldemort's point of view. None of this Harry/Voldy dream mullarkey. Wish me luck. I am going to need it.


	47. The Last Bastion

**Note: **And once again, Kimmeth disappears off the face of the Earth for a while. I wanted to put this up with the next chapter as they belong together but the next chapter's proving nightmarish to write so it's here on its own. Added to that, I had exams, the start of uni term and lots of other stressful things taking up my time, not to mention George Smiley invading my head. Enough of my excuses, onwards!**  
**

**Note2: **Not only am I in foreign territory (Voldemort's mind… I suggest you all bathe in disinfectant afterwards, I certainly had to), I am also in foreign theory – horcrux theory to be precise. Needless to say, I have taken quite a few liberties but I hope you enjoy none-the-less. I got the information on precisely when Voldemort created his horcruxes from a JKR interview transcript on the HP Lexicon.

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**Chapter Forty-Seven**

**The Last Bastion**

If Voldemort's thoughts had wended in that direction, then he would have been feeling a great satisfaction in the power that he now held over the wizarding world, a power that was so strong that his mere invisible presence was enough to cause allies, enemies and the wholly neutral to cower as he passed through the halls of the Ministry. These fear-struck witches and wizards were not aware that it was he whom they had crossed paths with, only that there was something in the Ministry that was extremely powerful and had no reservations when it came to using that might. Those who had worked within its subterranean corridors for many years and who continued to do so under the new administration could guess that it was him, the one who now controlled all of their lives like a puppeteer, and they shuddered accordingly.

Voldemort's thoughts were not, however, concerned with the reactions of mere mortals as he strode towards his destination. Normally he would have saved himself the trouble and apparated directly into the Minister's office, but today, it was the very subject of his concentrated thoughts that had caused him to wish for a slightly longer journey in order to mull recent events over. The glamour of concealment that had caused this strange wave of terror throughout the Ministry to have no visible source was not through any desire for self-protection on the part of the Dark Lord, far from it. It merely added to his forbidding influence, the fact that he was the man behind the Ministry, he was the man behind everything, and yet his face was never seen within the institution. He worked through proxies, and as such his power was all the greater as people continued to shake at the mere mention of his name. But even this was not the subject occupying Voldemort's mind.

The Dark Lord would never admit to fear or worry, or any other feeling or emotion that could possibly be misconstrued as a weakness. Moreover, to the Dark Lord, all feelings and emotions were a sign of weakness, being linked inextricably as they were with the human and mortal state, in its nature weak. Voldemort, the Dark Lord, the Master of Death, was above such traits. Nonetheless, the Dark Lord was feeling a distinct degree of unease, for if he was not careful, his own state might return to that of mortality before long. His horcruxes were under threat, this much was now clear. Of the six that he had originally created, but one remained, the ever-faithful Nagini, whose smooth body undulated along the floor in his wake, her form unseen but her unnerving hiss not unheard. At least he knew that it would be harder for any potential assassin to destroy his devoted pet; he rarely let her leave his side now. He was considering carefully the possible merits and drawbacks to restarting his collection, to creating new horcruxes, just to be sure. He was not in the habit of second-guessing himself, every decision he made was final, except this one. This one created a definite dilemma.

On the one hand, there was nothing physically preventing him from creating five new horcruxes and regaining the immense advantage that he had held over his enemies for so long. It was only the logistics that made him think twice about doing so. The first time around, his quest had taken him a good fifty years to come to full fruition, indeed his physical body had been destroyed once before he had completed his set. This time, he would not be able to be so selective in his choice of holding vessel. But he could not use simply anything he had to hand; that was the mark of a desperate man, and the Dark Lord was never desperate. Storing these miniatures of his soul would also prove to be difficult; none of his previous hiding places could be used by dint of their already having been discovered, and it had taken enough time and effort to conceal the first horcruxes.

A third practical issue was the time it took, time that Voldemort could ill afford to waste. Creating the horcruxes weakened him physically, however temporary his recovery time, and the effects seemed to have become more acute as the number of rips in his soul increased. He knew that at this delicate stage, he could not waste this precious time, nor could he appear to be incapacitated in front of followers and enemies alike. His foes might take that opportunity to strike, and his Death Eaters might lose the nervous revere in which they held him. The Dark Lord bristled uncharacteristically; he could feel his followers' impatience, waiting for something to happen, and if he did not act soon he would be faced with the beginnings of an insubordination. Such an occurrence would be, of course, easily dealt with should it arise, but initiating new members into his force to replace the ones he had been forced to dispense with was a tiresome process. Far better to continue with the select corps he already had.

Voldemort turned his attention back to the pressing question of horcruxes. Finally, he had to consider the state of the soul itself. He could not help but remember his conversations with Slughorn on the subject, and his teacher warning him of the evils of splitting one's soul with murder and intent to live forever. He had warned of the instability of a fractured soul. Now split seven ways, with countless more ruptures from the many more deaths at his wand, he knew what he was risking should he continue to remove it piecemeal from his body. There would be no glory in his being destroyed by the very thing that was meant to enable his immortality.

The finer points of the situation having been presented thus, the Dark Lord came to a logical conclusion. It would be imprudent at this stage to create more horcruxes; Nagini should serve him well through to his victory, a victory that he could feel to be close at hand. All that was left before he could assume his place at the pinnacle of his new, _pure_ society was the destruction of that last bastion of hope – Hogwarts. It was for this reason that he had come to the Ministry today, to set in motion the fall of that final noble institution. The final bone of the spine.

Voldemort reached his destination and apparated into the Minister's office to avoid betraying his presence by opening the door. Pius was sat at his desk ignoring the meaningless paperwork stacked up in front of him and focussing his attention on the shapely rear of his secretary, who was filing in the corner. A brief glimpse into the man's mind told him that he was on the verge of going over and grabbing that same rear when Nagini gave a particularly loud hiss and both Pius and the object of his lust jumped. The Minister, recognising this as his master's calling card, hastily dismissed the young woman and attempted to look extremely busy. The Dark Lord lifted his spell and was pleased to note that the other man still jumped.

"My Lord, I didn't realise you were here."

"Pius, contrary to your opinion of what the esteemed position of Minister entails in its day to day duties, I did not instate you in this high rank to slaver over the opposite sex. I do expect the Ministry to be run with some semblance of order in my absence."

"Of course, my Lord, I was…"

"Enough." Voldemort held up a bony hand to cut off the Minister's suitably pathetic excuse for an excuse and continued to speak, moving around the room as he did so. He often did this; it kept the subject that he was addressing on edge, never quite knowing where his eyes should be directed in order to try and keep the very dangerous and volatile presence in sight for as long as possible. "It has come to my attention that whilst our plans have been progressing at a steady pace, the time has come for us to begin the end. As you know, the Ministry is now comfortable in its new administration and we have made inroads into the dire state that its previous government had left it in…"

The Dark Lord broke off on realising that Pius was not paying any attention to him; his eyes were unfocussed upon the middle distance and his thoughts were completely jumbled and incoherent. He sighed heavily and raised his wand.

"_Imperio_."

Suddenly Pius was back in the room with them, alert, afraid, and whole-heartedly believing that the master stalking his office was the one that he had always served. The Dark Lord remembered selecting the ex-head of the Department of Magical Law Enforcement to be Rufus Scrimgeour's successor; naturally it had been necessary that the new Minister have some vague air of respectability about him. They did not want the public to panic unduly. Pius's mind was so very simple and linear, and the spell that he was under was one of the most complex that Voldemort had ever cast, aside from those that melded his horcruxes. It did, however, require the occasional bolstering, normally after Pius's original personality traits had been allowed to bleed through for too long, namely those involving women. The Dark Lord made a mental note to fire Pius's current secretary and replace her with one that was either hideously ugly, a man, or both. He continued to outline his plan to the Minister.

"As I was saying, the Ministry is under control, Azkaban has long since been under control, and now the time has come for us to press on and continue to the last obstacle that remains in our path to greatness. We shall require the Ministerial Committee for Re-Education; I know that Dolores Umbridge has been feeling increasingly frustrated at how little she has had to do recently."

"Of course, my Lord." Obediently, Pius called through to his secretary. "Gwenda, I need to the see the head of the Re-Education Committee immediately!"

A moment later, there was a knock at the door; naturally it was not possible for Umbridge to have arrived that quickly and Voldemort took a small degree of pleasure in seeing the look of surprise etch itself onto Pius's face.

"Enter?" he called nervously. The person wishing admittance opened the door but the Minister's unease did not lessen as three figures, none of whom were the head of the Re-Education Committee, came into the room.

"You said that you would require our presence here, my Lord," said Yaxley smoothly, ignoring Pius and awaiting the reply of his ultimate master. The Carrow siblings merely looked around the room, visibly wondering which of the many ornaments belonging to its occupier could be spirited away and made a tidy profit of.

"I did indeed, Yaxley," said the Dark Lord. "As you know, Hogwarts School has been left relatively untouched in the wake of our many reforms and improvements here at the Ministry, and I believe that the time has come for this to change. Its autonomy is becoming dangerous to our cause. Who knows what sort of rebellion might be being instructed as we speak? I therefore believe it necessary for you to undertake a little investigation."

"What about Snape, my Lord?" asked Yaxley. Voldmort knew that this remark was not made out of any sort of concern or respect for his colleague; far from it, Yaxley and Snape were bitter rivals and any opportunity for one-upmanship was most certainly taken full advantage of by the former at least. Severus had always been too sensible and independent to sink to such levels, qualities that made him both an excellent spy and, conversely, an excellent would-be traitor. He smiled to himself; Yaxley had been wishing to regain some of the prestige that he had lost to his comrade ever since the previous August.

"Snape cannot, unfortunately, tell me everything that I wish to know about the workings of the castle," said Voldemort carefully. "He has been more reticent than usual of late and I suspect that he has allowed his working relationship with Minerva McGonagall and the rest of the staff to decline. Perhaps it would be worth your while reminding him of his duties whilst you are visiting." He addressed the gathered Death Eaters as a group, politely ignoring the man whose office he had commandeered for this meeting.

"Your task is simple. I merely wish you to gain entry to Hogwarts and gather proof that there is conspiracy against the Ministry. The task should not be too hard, after all, if someone as dim-witted as Fudge could be convinced of it two years ago then people with _slightly_ more brain…" Here he looked at the Carrows pointedly. "… should be able to find something of incriminating value."

"And if there isn't anything, my Lord?" asked Alecto.

"There will be something," reassured the Dark Lord. "It need only be the merest proof, and no-one would question the genuineness of ministerial proof."

Yaxley smiled wolfishly; at least one of them had caught the meaning.

"It will of course be necessary to take Madame Umbridge with you as a _respectable _front, at the very least she can distract the headmistress with legalities and paperwork lest the esteemed professor smell a proverbial rat."

There was a second knock at the door; this would inevitably be the fourth member of their party come to answer her summons. Pius opened his mouth to invite her in but Voldemort held up a hand to stop him.

"Once the proof is acquired then the Ministry can move in, close down, and disperse. United they stand, divided they face annihilation, and the sweetest part of our victory will come from the simplicity of their defeat. I do not see the school, in its already broken state, as a valuable foe to warrant a full-scale attack, besides, they are likely to come together in the face of adversity and prove stronger than we expect. No, a quiet mutilation is the best way forward, and there will be nothing that the professors can do to stop it."

He paused to contemplate his words for a moment, then, satisfied that he had said all that needed to be said, he lowered his hand to allow Pius to speak and vanished.

Umbridge entered the room and Pius, as mentally instructed, began to explain what was required of her in this little outing.

The Dark Lord disapparated. The fall was so close that he could almost taste it, and it would only be a matter of time before Hogwarts had vanished and he would have single-handedly succeeded in breaking society's back. Then, and only then, could his perfect world begin to take shape.

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**Note3:** Eech. *Reaches for the mind-bleach.* Nah, I'm exaggerating. That was one of the most interesting writing experiences I have ever had. No kidding.


	48. Sides Are Drawn

**Note: **I had a lot of trouble with this chapter, that has during C&I's life been two chapters, one chapter, cut altogether, hastily put back, cut again, changed completely, made into a flashback chapter, had its flashbacks taken out, had its flashbacks put back in, and was finally scrapped and started over. And I am at last happy with it. Hope you get on with it too. (Spot the part one film quote.)

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**Chapter Forty-Eight**

**Sides Are Drawn**

Minerva took a certain gluttonous pleasure in spending time in the transfiguration classroom. In the wake of everything that had happened since she had become headmistress, she had more than once found the process of coming down from the claustrophobia of Albus's office to teach (she could never call it her own when she felt as if the walls were pressing in on her and she fancied she could feel the portraits breathing down her neck) to be a therapeutic one. She could shrug off the worries that the school's management piled upon her and settle into an old and comfortable role for however short a time, until the lesson was over and she was required to secret herself away in her secluded hideaway at the castle's centre, overseeing the proceedings as best she could. For those hours in which she taught she was no longer the head of the school, no longer the figurehead of a resistance that she'd had precious little contact with for the past couple of months. She was simply Minerva McGonagall, animagus and transfiguration tutor, imparting the mysteries of her chosen art to rapt and not-so-rapt audiences of willing and not-so-willing students. As contrary as the image seemed, the noise and bustle of the main school was to her a haven far more tranquil than the snore-broken silence of the office in which she was now spending as little time as she could afford to without the school collapsing in on itself.

The post was the worst part. She could not go a week without at least one letter arriving to inform her of deceased or missing relatives of her pupils, more pupils than ever under the Ministry's new regime, more pupils than ever to try and protect and keep away from the perils of the terrible world that lay beyond the gates, a world so bound up in corrupt legislation that it had become lawless. They were the sole boat floating in a sea of sharks, and Minerva dreaded to think what would happen if they should chance to spring a leak. She dreaded to think what would happen come the Easter and summer breaks when the students would leave the sturdy protection of the school's thick walls and venture their toes into the dangerous waters.

When she taught, however, she could ignore all the papers requiring her signature, all the messages requiring answers. Minerva had been a teacher her whole working life; education was her passion and she could think of nothing that she would have done had she not followed this path. Sitting in the office it was far too easy to forget that, and she needed the time in the classroom to remind her why she was there.

She was sitting at the front desk marking before the arrival of her first class of the day (fifth-years beginning OWL preparation), simply enjoying the atmosphere of the classroom. She had not been expecting any interruptions and she was indeed surprised when a voice called her through the open door at the back of the room.

"Minerva."

She looked up; Filius was standing there, looking slightly pink and out of breath as if he had run to find her. His face was such that Minerva knew immediately the tidings he brought her were not good ones, and she marvelled at the maxim 'bad news travels fast'.

"What's the matter?" she asked, half-rising from the desk, unsure whether she should prepare for a fourth-year prank gone wrong or a full-scale invasion.

"They're here," said Filius. "They're on their way. The Ministry, among others."

Minerva's blood ran cold. Whilst it was not Voldemort himself come to pull down their walls, it was an embodiment of his might sent on his command. She would be lying if she said that she had not been expecting a visit from the Ministry, and she would certainly not admit to having been lulled into a false sense of security. Far from it. She had been awaiting this inevitable visit ever since the first representatives had been sent, far back in the previous summer, when they had as good as lost their library to them. The problem was, that despite the ample time spent stewing and waiting, Minerva still did not have a strategy for dealing with the interlopers when they did deign to show their faces, as they had decided to do now.

"Who, how many, where are they?" So many questions and obviously not enough time in which to make suitable plans for dealing with all the answers. There were some fallbacks in place – Irma could hide her contraband works at the drop of a hat – but the problem was the suddenness with which they had to act. Minerva was uncharacteristically flustered and extremely angry with herself at having been caught off guard, and she knew that had she been in the office rather than slightly more relaxed in her private domain, she would have been more on the ball. For a split second she wondered if Voldemort had timed this visit specifically to coincide with her teaching timetable.

"Umbridge at the head, as is to be expected," said Filius, regaining his breath. "At least three Death Eaters with her and about ten generic goons at their command. And they're right outside."

It was not an army, but it was undoubtedly a task force. It was enough for a skirmish. They'd seen a fight with those numbers at the end of the previous year, and this time there was no Order to help them. Hogwarts would have to defend itself, and as Minerva glanced out of the window and saw the black-clad convoy headed by lurid pink making its way up the drive towards the main door, she knew that Hogwarts would succeed. An anger long suppressed began to rise in her veins, and she strode out of the door, past Filius, who had to begin jogging again to keep up with her.

"What shall we do, Minerva?"

"We shall do what we always do, Filius. Keep calm and carry on as normal. If you could pass the library on your way to your classroom and mention to Irma that it might be worth taking some precautionary measures; that will save some bloodshed."

Filius had to stifle a bitter laugh; there was indeed no way on Earth that the Ministry would get their hands on Irma's stock whilst she still had breath in her body, not after what had happened last time and certainly not after the terrible tragedy that replenishing her shelves had engendered, but he was soon serious again.

"Do you think it will come to a fight?"

"Not if I can help it, but I get an awful feeling that we will not have much choice in the matter."

Filius nodded his understanding and hared off in the direction of the library and his own classroom. Minerva made it to the main door and opened it just as Umbridge was raising her hand to knock, and the headmistress scored one mental victory point. They did not have the advantage of catching them unawares, or at least, the school could make it look as if it had not been caught unawares despite the short notice that they were acting under.

"Dolores," she began pleasantly before the smaller witch could speak. "To what do we owe the pleasure?"

Umbridge's piggy eyes narrowed at this unexpected display of welcome, and Minerva scored herself half a point for outwitting the enemy before giving up the wholly inappropriate notion of tallying points and focussing on the task at hand – getting the Ministry and Voldemort's influence as far away from the school as quickly as possible. Like the spread of a viral disease, once the school was tainted it would succumb; and Minerva would not stand for the institution to be infected. They had but one advantage at that moment in time, against the might of the government and the law and the sheer vastness of the evil that they were facing, and that was that the school was completely secure; Severus's presence there was not the threat that Voldemort hoped it was.

"It's bad business I'm afraid, Minerva," said Umbridge, her voice equally sweet as she withdrew a neat roll of parchment from her hideously pink handbag, the Minister's signature still glistening at the bottom. "We of the Ministerial Committee for Re-Education…" here Minerva looked at the minions that accompanied Umbridge and raised an eyebrow pointedly "… are very worried about falling standards at Hogwarts. We are certain that in its autonomy from Ministerial control, the institution has become weakened, a minefield of illicit and illegal activities that have been allowed to thrive whilst the staff turn a blind eye to the terrible consequences that are but round the corner for these young rebels."

Minerva made no comment, merely folding her arms in a position that she hoped conveyed the message that Umbridge would have to do better than that before being allowed in.

"As you know, the Ministerial Committee for…"

"Yes, I know the name of your office," interrupted Minerva. "What is it that I apparently know?"

"Ahem. As you know, we now have the power to conduct unannounced checks on educational establishments" (Minerva felt this rather rich considering Hogwarts was the _only_ educational establishment) "to monitor for signs of insubordination that could be damaging to the school and, of course, the Ministry. You are of course aware, Minerva, that failure to co-operate will not be taken lightly."

Minerva must have let her unease show in her otherwise passive face, as Umbridge gave a saccharine smile that increased her resemblance to an overfed amphibian tenfold.

"You have nothing to fear if you have nothing to hide," she added sweetly. "And believe me, Minerva," she continued, not quite as sweet and in fact revelling in presumptuous triumph, "if you have something to hide, then we will find it."

Her disarmingly mild manner returned.

"Now then, there is naturally an awful lot of paperwork to be discussed and signed; I think it best if you and I take a look at it whilst my colleagues perform the necessary checks."

Minerva did not think it best at all; she knew that if Umbridge caught her up in paperwork then she would not be there in amongst the school, doing what she could to help her staff and students evade the clutches of the rest of Umbridge's committee. She recognised the Carrow siblings, unchanged from their own days at Hogwarts except that they had completely lost the last vestiges of awe that they had once held for the building. All she could do was to hope that word had got around the school. Listening to the sounds of the pupils heading towards their first lessons, she surmised that it had; that Filius had taken matters into his own hands as she had hoped he would do and sent a warning around. There was no chatter in the corridors, just the noise of feet assiduously avoiding the entrance hall where the tense confrontation between headmistress and unwanted visitors was playing out. Perhaps the castle itself had sensed their presence and was performing its unspoken duty to help the inhabitants, keeping them out of harm's way. But as sentient as the school often seemed to be, it could not protect them forever. This time, Minerva knew that the only way to defeat the fox would be to step into its lair, to play along to its traps and hope. They were a school of over three hundred against just fourteen. The odds were in their favour, but what would they lose should they choose to engage in a fight? Minerva knew that despite their numbers now, they would not stand a chance should this brief skirmish become a complete battle.

"Very well, Dolores. If you would care to follow me."

Minerva turned on her heel and made her way back towards her transfiguration classroom. She glimpsed her class briefly, an exhausted-looking Aurora taking the register at its head having obviously been hastily drafted in as cover – not for the first time that term, Minerva noted guiltily. The two teachers' eyes met and a mutual understanding passed between them. Minerva continued along the corridor into a chamber that had long since fallen out of use thanks to its cramped confines making it unsuitable for its original purpose.

"We should be undisturbed in here," she said, motioning for Umbridge to take a seat as she shut the door, looking out into the corridor to see Yaxley giving orders to the rest of the group who dispersed silently before he disappeared, as she had expected him to, in the direction of Severus's office.

"Not your office, Minerva?" Umbridge enquired lightly, although they both knew the reasons for the seemingly odd choice of venue. Whilst the head's office was at the heart of the school, it was also very isolated from the classrooms and the main body of the building where anything untoward might happen. If they were in the office, then Umbridge could keep Minerva nicely cut off from what was happening elsewhere, something that the headmistress wanted to avoid categorically. If something, anything with the slightest hint of a discrepancy about it occurred, Minerva wanted to be within easy reach. She made no reply to the short witch and sat down opposite her, one eye on the door, letting Umbridge's voice drone on in her ears as she looked at the documents without seeing them, her mind totally elsewhere.

"As you know from decree number four-hundred and twenty-two…"

Minerva had long since given up trying to keep up to date on the Ministry's many decrees that had been passed at short notice and completely illegally, so she neither knew nor cared for what Umbridge was attempting to explain to her. She was certain that the repulsive woman was here for the sole purpose of keeping her distracted whilst her less-than-respectable colleagues performed even more underhand dealings than the ones that were being spread out in front of her with official Ministry seals. She was in half a mind to stun Umbridge and investigate what was happening in the rest of the school, but she did not want to think of the repercussions. For the moment, she would sit, and wait, and listen.

As with everything it seemed, the cataclysm came all of a sudden. There was the sharp crack of a curse connecting, the thunder of running feet from above them, and a yell of 'Professor!'

Minerva was out of her seat and towards the door within a second.

"Minerva!" Umbridge called after her, but she was ignored for her trouble. The headmistress careened into the hall, meeting Aurora from the next room, and she heard the footsteps of the other staff pulled almost magnetically from their lessons by that single word, 'professor'. It was a cry for help, not specified, just a cry for help going to anyone who heard it. And in their heightened state of awareness, Minerva was sure that even the teachers at the other ends of the building would have heard it.

They met with Horace and Filius in the entrance hall and the latter's appearance made Minerva breathe a sigh of relief;whatever had happened could not have occurred in the library since Filius would have passed it and duly intervened.

A Ravenclaw sixth-year came tearing down the stairs, her hand clutched over her upper arm where blood was oozing between her fingers.

"Fetch Poppy," Minerva ordered Aurora, who sped off without a word, suddenly awake and alert. The two men ran up the stairs unprompted, and the headmistress cast a first aid spell that would hold up until Poppy's professional potions arrived. "What happened, Ruth?" she asked the girl, sitting her on the bottom step.

"I was on my way to the common room, I've got free at the moment, they were arguing with the statue, I thought I could get away but they noticed me and made me open the door; I was scared and forgot everything so I did it, they barged past me and started turning the place inside out, one of them saw some of Carrie's muggle magic books from home and they thought they'd hit the jackpot and I said that they couldn't take them, they're Carrie's and they're all she's got left of her mum now, and then they cursed and I ran."

Ruth ran out of breath at the end of her hurried tale and looked gratefully past Minerva at Poppy, who was running from the hospital wing. In the time that it had taken her to relate the story, Minerva had been aware of movement in the rest of the castle, upstairs, downstairs, along corridors, and it was obvious now that magical combat had most definitely broken out.

Minerva rose to join her staff and found herself face to face with Umbridge, whose triumphant smile was in place.

"Muggle magic, indeed," she said, and tutted softly. "This is the sort of thing that requires stamping out, Minerva. It appears that we have arrived not a moment too soon."

"Oh shut up, Delores." Minerva cast a spell to silence the odious vision in pink and set off up the stairs. Halfway she met Alecto Carrow, her filthy paws clutched around Carrie's treasured books. "I'll be taking those." She vanished the books to safety and Alecto stared dumbly at her empty hands for a moment before coming to her senses and attacking. What the dumpy witch lacked in skill she more than made up for in enthusiasm, and in this respect she had not changed at all from her schooldays. Minerva managed to disarm her with a little creative spellwork. Some Death Eaters, she decided, were at a slight disadvantage when fighting their former teachers, most of whom had memories like elephants and knew that the weak points they'd had during their schooling were unlikely to have been completely ironed out no matter how many people they maimed and killed in their chosen career path.

Alecto was not completely stupid, however, and her stumpy legs could carry her quickly when they wanted to. She pushed past Minerva towards the entrance hall and the headmistress let her pass; wandless she was no real threat and there were others to be worrying about. She continued up the stairs and ran past Filius duelling Alecto's brother in one of the rooms off the corridor that led to his house tower. Minerva did not stop; Filius was an expert in his field and if she didn't know better she'd say that he was quite enjoying the bout. She stopped short to avoid tripping over a stunned heap in generic black and found herself face to face with two of the other legmen that Umbridge and the Death Eaters had brought with them. She raised her wand to defend herself but no attack came. Coming half a step closer, she saw the faraway, slightly pearlescent sheen to their eyes and immediately recognised the imperius curse. Whoever was controlling them had given them no orders to attack and they were standing dumbly, staring at their fallen comrade. Minerva was in half a mind to curse them and put them out of their misery when they appeared to come to their senses then and raised their wands. The brief respite over, Minerva decided on offence as the best line of defence and attempted to stun, but her spells were blocked. That was a less well-known and more dangerous effect of the imperius curse; since the person under control was in effect channelling the mind and wishes of the caster, they inherited a certain measure of the caster's ability, rendering usually inept wizards that deciding bit more powerful. Gradually though, her vehemence had the intended effect and her attackers seemed to back off, wheeling round in the direction of the main entrance hall and an escape route.

A spark of hope suddenly flickered in Minerva's heart. It would have been so easy for them to turn this into the beginning of the end, so easy for them to call for reinforcements – far easier than it was for her to call the Order – and yet faced with several angry staff who would not let violence against their students go unavenged, they were retreating. She surmised that their reconnaissance had never been intended to become a battle. It had been intended to lower their morale before a later attack, to find out the lay of the land before an all-out assault. She heard footsteps from behind her and turned to see that Umbridge had caught her up.

"Minerva," panted the shorter witch, "we have known that there have been problems at the school for some time now, but gross insubordination on such an unprecedented scale, staff attacking Ministry representatives at random, well, the Minister will be told, and I can assure you that he will not tolerate…"

"I thought Professor McGonagall told you to be quiet?"

A curse hit Umbridge from behind, causing her tongue to loll out as if it had become a lead-weight. Looking past, Minerva saw Neville and a group of the core DA members standing, wands at the ready.

"Well, we thought you might need assistance," he said by way of explanation. Before Minerva could reply with either reprimand or gratitude, there was the sound of a particularly violent curse connecting and Amycus was thrown out of the room in which he had been duelling Filius, rolling down the stairs and coming to a stop at his sister's feet. Umbridge, knowing herself to be outnumbered and remembering the DA's wrath from her short-lived teaching career, hastily followed her colleague. Filius appeared from the room, brushing imaginary specks of dust from his robes.

The other staff were appearing now, hounding the rest of the poor, unfortunately imperiused goons into the entrance hall, helped along occasionally by a surreptitious spell from Neville or Ginny. At that moment, Yaxley rushed onto the scene. He took one look at the gathering crowd of Hogwarts' defenders and the pathetic state that his task force had got itself into, and he visibly decided that a tactical retreat was his only option.

"IMBECILES!" he roared, throwing the Carrow siblings through the door with a spell. "You were under strict orders to curb your enthusiasm for later!" A grand sweep of his arm caused the rest of the group to move in the same direction, and once they were all through the doors – Umbridge still with her tongue hanging out like a drooling dog – Minerva took great delight in hearing the door slam with a heavy clang.

There was silence for a long time, no-one daring to move lest this retreat be simply a feint. The staff began to move towards the doors, through the increasing crowds of students who had started gathering to witness the finale to the spectacle in the absence of teacher supervision.

Minerva reached the doors and looked at the foreboding wood, the only line of defence separating them from the evil that had attempted to bring them down that day. The silence did not break for a long time, everyone subconsciously expecting the doors to burst open with an attack of renewed intensity. Finally she heard heavy footfalls on the stairs.

"They've gone," said Aurora, coming down from her tower. "I counted them out of the gates and out of sight."

"What do we do now?" asked Filius.

"What can we do?" replied Horace. "There's only one option."

"This is it, Minerva," said Pomona. "We already know that there's no turning back now, so there's no point in delaying the inevitable."

Minerva nodded, and slowly turned to face the staff and the pupils who had congregated in the main hall and on the stairs, watching her intently.

She cleared her throat. She had known since August that this time would come; she had known she would have to make the speech that she had prepared long ago, but that did not make it any easier to begin.

"After the actions of our so-called government this morning, I will not be at all surprised if many of you believe that Hogwarts is no longer safe. We must now prepare ourselves for an attack that we do not know when it will come. It may be tomorrow, it may be weeks, it may only be a matter of minutes. We must either evacuate, lock down, or both.

"A concentrated attack on the school will be dangerous; the forces we are against hold no qualms about using violence against children. We know this from experience. I am sure that none of my fellow staff will disagree when I say that we could not have it on our consciences should an attack come when the school is at its full capacity as it is now. However, an evacuation could prove just as terrible, if not more so. It is hard to evacuate a school unnoticed. For many of you, especially those from muggle backgrounds, the Hogwarts Express is the only way for you to return home. Should an attack be launched against it, I dread to think of the consequences, even if the train was defended as best we could." Minerva thought of the Order, and she wondered how many of their already overstretched forces it would take to protect her students. She forced herself to continue. "This castle, as old and magical as it is, offers some of the best protection there is – I am sure you have all heard of the Room of Requirement. I am therefore proposing to lock down the school until suitable arrangements can be made for the evacuation of all under-age pupils; those of age I cannot force to leave. If anyone would prefer to leave immediately, then arrangements will of course be made."

No-one moved to argue. The school was silent until one voice spoke. Neville moved forward from his position in the crowd.

"Professor McGonagall, I think I speak for all of us when I say that whilst Hogwarts may not be infallible, it is still safer than anywhere else in the country at the moment. I understand that you don't want us all to be sitting ducks when the time comes, but I don't want you or anyone else to think that we don't trust the school and the staff to protect us when the time comes, or that we are not prepared to protect ourselves and our school."

Minerva couldn't speak. She had no reply to Neville's heartfelt words. There was nothing that she wanted more than to keep all the students there in the school where she could watch over and protect them, but she had already proved that she could not protect them all the time.

"Thank you, Mr Longbottom," said Filius, saving her. "Your faith is honourable."

By an unspoken mutual consent, the crowds began to disperse until only the staff remained in the entrance hall. Minerva was still dumbstruck, and for the first time during that horrendous morning she felt herself to be on the verge of breaking down.

Someone touched her arm lightly, she looked round to see Pomona smiling at her sadly.

"It's time, Minerva."

She nodded and turned to the doors. Once the spell was performed, the main castle building would become not completely impenetrable, but certainly less penetrable; it was more often used to keep people in rather than out, but as with the majority of such spells it worked both ways. The doors were sealed and the majority of the main fireplace network was shut off from the outside Floo; some chimneys would remain open and have to be either sealed separately or warded. As she cast the spell, the stone itself seemed to bristle, tense, prepare itself for an imminent attack. It only took a few moments, and then the creaking of the door bolting itself began, an impressive and chilling sight in one.

The school was preparing for a battle. The last standing institution was still standing, but who knew how long for? Only one thing was certain.

Hogwarts had entered the war.

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**Note2: **For everything that the films did wrong, I do like the lockdown scenes. I just love that door.

**Note 3: **The next six or so chapters were written a while ago whilst I had the block for this one, so the updates will come less haphazardly for a couple of weeks!


	49. Action and Inaction

**Very Special Author's Note: ***Kimmeth puts on her best singing voice and the local seagulls run for cover.* Happy birthday to you, happy birthday to you, happy birthday dear C&I… Yes people, C&I is ONE YEAR OLD today. I cannot believe it. It was meant to be up and finished by 12th July for heaven's sake! Ah well. Here's hoping we won't have to celebrate its second anniversary…

**Disclaimer: **Dedalus's definition of the word 'coup' is quoted directly from OED online.

**Note: **I wrote virtually all of this chapter in one sitting, longhand no less. It was a nice day; I looked at my advanced translation skills textbook and thought 'meh, I don't want to read this gibberish, I'll go and write by the river instead'. Two hours later my right arm had seized up and I was frozen stiff, but the chapter was nearly finished. And I still had a load of translation theory to read…

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**Chapter Forty-Nine**

**Action and Inaction**

Remus looked sadly at the gathered Order members who had congregated in Tonks' parents' living room for this latest meeting. There seemed to be less and less of them each time. It was not due to fading hope and merely giving up that the others did not appear, far from it, it was simply the fact that their numbers were already so limited, and these numbers constituted what appeared to be the entire resistance to You-Know-Who's reign of terror. There was so much to be done, so much to be kept an eye on, that it was miraculous if five of his colleagues managed to come together to report that there was nothing to report. Privately, Remus considered recruiting more members; after all, there was absolutely no chance that the Order and their families were the only people who wanted to see He-Who-Must-Not-Be-Named defeated. But by unspoken agreement, their ranks remained very firmly closed. No-one was to be trusted in these dangerous times. The Order had already lost too many of its valuable members in the last few years and they were determined that no-one else would forfeit his or her life as a result of their imprudence in allowing unknowns into their circle.

After a few more minutes of grim contemplation had passed, Andromeda left her place by the window where she had been watching the property boundaries and swiped the antique teapot with her wand to check that it was still hot.

"I don't think anyone else is coming," she said quietly, and she withdrew from the room. Remus felt, in a complete opposite to a wizard's usual opinion of his in-laws, extremely sorry for Andromeda and Ted and the way that their lives had been affected by this bleak new dystopia. Ted had left his job before he was pushed out of it under new legislation that banned muggle-borns from working in any sort of magical capacity. With magicians still disappearing to be thrown into Azkaban for no offence other than their parentage or choice of life partner, both he and his wife were afraid to leave their house, remaining within what little protection the Order could afford them – Tonks had been making nightly visits to make sure that the charms she had put in place still held. In exchange, Andromeda and Ted had offered their home as a permanent headquarters for the Order which had proved most useful. They still switched meeting places regularly but it had taken some of the burden of fear away from Arthur and Molly, knowing that their house was no longer the Order's focal point.

"We may as well get started then," said Kingsley, looking at each of them in turn. Aside from Remus and Tonks, the only other members present were Bill and Dedalus. Everyone else was detained in some capacity.

"Well, there's good news, bad news and good-ish news," began Dedalus, succinctly summing up the reports that had been handed round the Order's various members over the past few days. "The good news is that thanks more to luck than judgement, five of You-Know-Who's six you-know-whats have been consigned to oblivion. The bad news is that Hogwarts has entered the war now and has only just managed to win a full-scale skirmish. The good-ish news is that they did indeed win a full-scale skirmish and they are now ready for a fight should it come to them, or so Minerva assured Kingsley the last time they spoke."

Kingsley nodded.

"What Minerva said, in other words," he continued, "was that although she'll probably require our assistance if they decide to evacuate, Hogwarts can take care of itself for the time being and we should concentrate on not worrying about what might happen there and focus on doing something pro-active.."

The others chorused their agreement and Remus was set to thinking again. That was one thing that kept crossing people's minds during these meetings and that nothing ever seemed to be done about. It was all very well what they were doing at that moment, indeed, the protection details that they had put in place and maintained were invaluable, but they also left them in a state of inaction. Whilst they were expending their time and energies upon the upkeep of these important defences, they were not doing anything that might gain them any sort of advantage when the inevitable cataclysm arrived. Because arrive it would, now that they were so close to destroying the source of You-Know-Who's immortality and by extension, power. It had been mentioned many times that it might be in the Order's interests to attempt to call the shots, to take the fight to their foe rather than waiting for an all-out, well-planned attack to come to them. It was always better in any kind of warfare, not just magical, to charge rather than be charged. However briefly one held the element of surprise, it was a definite advantage to be able to strike when the enemy least expected it, to be able to catch them off their guard before they'd had time to work out a detailed strategy.

"I think the sooner the better," said Bill. "Right now, he's probably feeling pretty damned sure of himself, the loss of the… things notwithstanding. He's succeeded in shaking Hogwarts by the scruff of the neck, even if he hasn't broken it. It seems to me that all his energies will be focussed on trying to destroy the school, which is the only thing that now stands in his way to complete social domination. I think it's safe to say that he might trust other institutions, which have long since been under his control, to take care of themselves."

Remus could see what Bill was suggesting and he smiled. Kingsley had also caught the meaning.

"What are you talking about, for those of us who don't speak fluent Weasley?" asked Dedalus, a touch exasperated.

"A coup." Kingsley grinned.

"A coup as in 'sudden, violent, and illegal seizure of power from a government'?" Dedalus had gone rather pale.

"Well, not quite a coup then," said Kingsley. "A metaphorical coup, if you like. A civil uprising."

"You're suggesting that we attempt to overthrow the Ministry?"

Remus was halfway out of his seat to catch the little man before he fell away in a dead faint, his voice had gone so high-pitched.

"Yes," said Kingsley, although he offered no further explanation. Dedalus hastened to restore his faculties with a cup of tea.

"And how precisely do we go about this?" asked Tonks. "Us versus the Ministry doesn't sound like particularly good odds to me. And in the grand scheme of things, is it even ethical?"

"Tonks, we're in the middle of a war," said Bill. "Nothing's ethical."

"I wasn't meaning like that." She sighed, frustrated. "So by some miracle we overthrow the Ministry and defeat You-Know-Who. What then? The Order can't just start running the country. We're no better qualified than the people in power at the moment. We'll simply be changing one unelected body for another, although ours won't lock up people based on their blood status or kill anyone that gets in our way."

Remus bit his lip. Tonks had raised a good point. They could take the fight to You-Know-Who, but then what?

Bill shook his head.

"No, that's not the problem. The head of the Ministry is under the Imperius curse, that much has been clear since the outset. You-Know-Who is only in control through a proxy and through the lackeys he's put there. If we could release the curse and remove the, erm, obstacles, then the Ministry would be autonomous once more and should You-Know-Who attempt to turn it again, it will be ready and anticipating."

"How do you propose we…" Tonks broke off and stared at Bill. "I keep forgetting you're a cursebreaker," she muttered.

There was silence in the room as the Order considered Bill and Kingsley's proposal.

"Can I just check that I've got my facts right?" asked Dedalus, who was now on his second cup of tea. Remus had half a mind to ask Ted for a drop of Scotch in it. "You two madmen are suggesting that we somehow infiltrate the Ministry, somehow break into the Minister's office, somehow break the _no doubt very complicated_ curse that he is under and somehow, somehow get rid of all the Death Eaters and sympathisers within the institution?"

"Pretty much," said Bill.

Dedalus shook his head and enunciated his next statement very carefully.

"For the love of top hats, HOW?"

"Well we don't have a complete strategy just yet," said Remus. "The plan's only just been laid on the table. But I think that if we start a revolution, then we might just be able to inspire some others to follow our lead."

He thought back to his earlier contemplations and the many potential Order members who were out there, so many individuals who wanted to make a difference but who were prevented from doing so by the sheer strength of numbers that their singular personage faced. All of a sudden, Remus's previous melancholia was slightly lessened. For the first time since Christmas, someone had had an active idea that would not only gain them the greatest advantage of all over their foe but would also bring them the support that they so desperately needed where their own forces were stretched to the limit. If they took the Ministry then You-Know-Who's nefarious plans were partly undone, and if they secured it, it would only be a matter of time before they could topple the wizard himself.

"Good theory," remarked Andromeda as she re-entered the room to refresh the teapot in the wake of Dedalus's attack on it. "But before you get too carried away I've a gaping flaw you missed. As far as I can make out, half of you are wanted by the Ministry. You'll never get near it."

Remus cringed; Andromeda had spoken true. Half-breeds like himself were being hounded, there was no doubt of it, and the rest of the Order who had worked in the Ministry had been so closely monitored that they had, one-by-one, been obliged to leave its employ and either seek work elsewhere or retreat into hiding. Tonks and Kingsley had held on for as long as they could but once it became clear that the Aurors were now being paid to do the opposite of what they had been so fastidiously trained for, they had left on principle before their non-compliance earned them worse reparations.

It was not that the Order were active fugitives, but they would not be welcomed by the Ministry should they unexpectedly arrive in its atrium once again. He thought of Arthur and Molly, forced into hiding, and the trouble that they already faced making ends meet. They had Fred and George helping out on that score though. In the wake of all the previous summer's events, they had been obliged to close their Diagon Alley premises and lead a far more reclusive life, but Weasleys' Wizard Wheezes was by no means out of business. By using the extremely overlooked muggle postage methods, their hastily established mail order service was still doing good trade. Everyone needed something to lighten their bleak days in these increasingly dark times.

Remus was pulled from his reflections by Kingsley's voice.

"We'll think of something, Andromeda," he said. "We all know that this will require quite a bit of planning if it is to be our turning point."

A turning point it was indeed, in the sense that if they did not succeed, they would be undoubtedly slaughtered, and their meagre resistance would cease to exist. Either they paved the way for a new government or they paved the way for You-Know-Who to take complete control. Remus grimaced at the thought; perhaps this wasn't such a good idea after all.

"No pressure then," said Tonks, who seemed to have read his thoughts.

"Have a bit of faith," said Bill. "We'll never get anywhere if we give up before we start. We've all done that enough times in the past and we agreed that it was time to do something."

"I just wish that the something wasn't quite so drastic," murmured Dedalus weakly.

"It's got to be I'm afraid," said Kingsley. "Small efforts here and there are just too easily quashed. If we're going to do something then it will have to be something spectacular in order to get anything done." He paused. "Everyone's up to speed so if no-one's got anything new to report…" here everyone shook their heads "… then I suggest we call it a day. Thank you for your hospitality, Andromeda."

"Any time," she replied. "Dedalus, you look as if you could use another ginger newt before you go."

Dedalus nodded his agreement and sank his teeth into the biscuit gratefully.

"We should make sure that everyone knows about this and as many people come to the next meeting as possible," said Bill. "We're going to need an awful lot of brainpower on this one."

He wasn't kidding, and neither was Kingsley. This was really their only chance – do something big or don't do anything at all – and it would have to be planned down to the last detail with several contingencies in place. What Bill had said earlier also rang true, though. They would have to do this sooner rather than later, whilst You-Know-Who's attention was focussed on the school and not on the supposedly secure Ministry. If they left it any later then they ran the risk of his taking over Hogwarts and cementing his grip, and their task would be impeded tenfold. They had so much to plan, and so very little time in which to plan it.

One by one the others left until only Tonks and Remus remained.

"Hang on a minute, I need a quick word with Mum." Tonks took off in the direction of the kitchen as they were making preparations to leave. Remus shrugged his acceptance and thought once more of the foreboding task that awaited them. Never had the phrase 'do or die' seen a situation more appropriate.

* * *

**Note2: **In case anyone is wondering, no, I am not going to cop out like I did with Gringotts. There _will_ be a raid on the Ministry, and it _will_ have its fair share of death, destruction, Dawlish, Floo powder, inept wizards named Jim, unexpected turns of events and witches wielding chair-legs…


	50. Priorities

**Note: **We're back with the Death Eaters, or more specifically with their spouses, for this particular update. These three chapters follow an arc that is slightly separate from the rest of the story … I hope you enjoy anyway. (This is also the second and indeed last chapter entirely from the point of view of an OC as opposed to a named character we know nothing about; the first is 'Uninvited Guests' from the POV of Della Jones.)

Oh, and we've reached the half century – fifty chapters and counting!

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**Chapter Fifty**

**Priorities**

Susanne Bea Rowle, named for her deceased Auntie Susie, was born at thirty-three minutes past six on the morning of the twenty-eighth of March, weighing seven pounds, five ounces and measuring fifteen inches. Camilla looked down at her goddaughter with mingled sadness and wonder, and the child gazed back at her with her mother's innocent blue eyes. The poor mite, thought Camilla. She had absolutely no idea of the mess that she'd been born into. She was blissfully unaware of the shadowy forces that were pressing in on her family from all sides.

Finn gingerly shifted his hold on his daughter, seeming to be genuinely surprised when she didn't start to cry and merely stared at him. The young man had been sitting in the same position for the past three quarters of an hour, as if he was still having trouble processing the fact that the state of impending fatherhood that had been hanging over him for the past thirty-nine weeks had suddenly become an all too solid reality.

"Finn," said Camilla gently. It took her four attempts to get a response.

"Hi, Cam," he said eventually.

"Just checking you were still with us." She laughed. "She's got you mesmerised already."

"She's so _small_," said Finn in disbelief.

"She's a baby, Finn. They tend to be small. I think you were expecting her to be a giant because Mareike's so tiny, her bump looked massive in comparison." Camilla touched the wisp of blonde on the child's head. "She'll be the spit of her mother when she's older."

"If she gets that far," muttered Finn darkly. Camilla could not deny the foreboding truth of the statement, but the suddenness with which Finn had said it knocked her for six. They all knew that Mareike's security, and that of her baby, had been gradually lessening since the summer. Events just before Christmas had warned them of that. But for Finn, who had always tried so desperately to keep a brave face and who rarely confided his fears in anyone, for him to say upfront that he was having doubts as to his daughter's continued survival, well, that was a marker of just how unsure the times were. Camilla knew what had brought about the change and turned a once vaguely optimistic man bitter. Finn had signed his own death sentence during the night of Susie's birth. He had not said anything to either Camilla or his wife, but both women knew what had occurred. Camilla had seen it as Mareike gripped his hand to the point of breaking, swearing in her native language more colourfully than Camilla ever thought possible and crying till she was certain that no more tears could come. The infernal mark had burned glossy black and Finn had gasped at a sudden pain that had nothing to do with Mareike cutting off his circulation. The call had gone out. His presence was required elsewhere. And Finn, brave, foolish, wonderful Finn, had ignored it, staying with Mareike as she brought their child into the world. He had made it clear where his priorities lay.

Camilla had spent enough time around the Dark Lord's followers and their families to know that one could not simply ignore the call. You couldn't turn your back on a master whose ire knew no bounds and who had, in Camilla's opinion at least, so few moral reservations that he was into negative figures. When a man demands utter subservience, anything else is viewed as insubordination. Blatant ignoring could not be misconstrued. Finn had turned his back on the corps, and Camilla knew only too well what that meant. Someone would end up dead.

Camilla shook her head; there was no use dwelling on what they had no hope of controlling. She patted Finn on the shoulder and held out her arms to take Susie from him.

"We're safe here at the moment," she said. "That's all that matters. We'll take each day as it comes. You go and get some sleep. I've got her."

Finn nodded weakly, knowing that should it come down to it, he was not in any way up to fighting for his existence in his state of numb exhaustion, and he relinquished the baby to Camilla. He had been getting very little sleep this past week, spending most of his time watching over Susie whilst the exhausted Mareike slumbered in the next room.

"I don't want to let her out of my sight," he admitted eventually after staring down at her now-sleeping face for a few more minutes. "I keep thinking something terrible will happen if I turn away for a moment." He sighed. "What has she got, Cam? She can't protect herself, she's a baby."

"She's got you and Mareike," said Camilla. "She's even got me, as old and rusting as I am."

Finn laughed.

"Sleep well, _Schätzchen_," he murmured, kissing Susie's forehead.

Camilla watched him leave the room, his manner hesitating, before she placed Susie into her crib and sat in the chair that Finn had just vacated. She glanced around the room, decorated in varying shades of lurid pink and mauve, and she dreaded to think what would have happened if Susie had turned out to be a boy. The room had originally belonged to her daughter Alexandra, and she'd never felt any desire to change it, even when Allie had flown the familial nest. Camilla had always kept the room sacrosanct for when she returned home.

But Alexandra was not going to return home. Her mother was almost certain of that. She had not heard from her daughter since last June, over ten months now, and all the enquiries that she had launched into her whereabouts on the other side of the Atlantic had been fruitless and frustrating in equal measure. Camilla was sure that her daughter was dead, but the not knowing was killing her. How, why, who, where…

She looked down at Susie sadly; she had already vowed that she would not make the same mistakes with her goddaughter as she had made with her own children. She would not fail to protect her from the horrors to which she was an innocent bystander, and she would not allow her to be corrupted by the false promise of power and glory. Daniel's enthusiastic decision to go against his mother's wishes and sever ties with his family as a result was a constant knife in Camilla's heart. After everything that the family had been through at the hands of Evan's master, she simply could not understand what Daniel saw in the beast. Ultimately, thanks to the Dark Lord, Daniel had lost his father to Aurors at the age of eleven. Camilla sighed; she knew that she could not blame He-Who-Must-Not-Be-Named for everything that had gone wrong in her life, there was a degree of free will in there somewhere, but sometimes it made life easier to be able to direct all her hatred and frustration against one person. Camilla missed her husband terribly and had done for the past eighteen years. Naturally, she was inclined to see their time together through rose-tinted spectacles.

Presently Susie woke and began to cry. Camilla went over to the crib and rocked it gently, humming an old song that had been sung to her as a child and that she had passed on through the generations. The sound did nothing to soothe the child, and Camilla was just about to go and rouse Mareike when the witch in question appeared in the doorway.

"It's ok, _Schätzchen_," she said softly, picking up her daughter. "Mama's here."

Camilla left the two in peace and entered into the darkness of the hall, moving through the house without bothering to source any illumination. She'd lived there long enough to know her way around by instinct alone. She couldn't think clearly in the light; there were too many visible distractions. Life was easier in the dark, when one could try and pretend that the terror was not there simply because you couldn't see it. True, all sorts of unsavoury things could hide in the dark, but Camilla had always felt safe within the four solid walls of her Surrey home, protected and isolated from the world.

Now though… Now she was not so sure. Not now that Finn had deserted. She would always support his decision; she did not regret his having done what he had done, far from it. But she could not deny that his doing so had placed them all in a very precarious position. Their whereabouts were no secret; being a widow and therefore superfluous, Camilla had never felt any danger nor the need for a secret-keeper, and now it was too late. She supposed that they would have to move and find a safe house somewhere else, but Camilla had no idea where. All of the friends whose hospitality she had always been able to rely upon in the past were out of the question; their addresses were known to the Dark Lord and by proxy to the Death Eaters who would undoubtedly carry out his orders. Camilla did not think herself important enough to be killed by the master himself. They would be better off leaving the country entirely, and indeed, both Mareike and Finn's childhood homes stood empty and ready for them to use. The problem was getting there with Susie. Whilst they could be carried through the domestic Floo network to a distance of ten miles, the international Floo network was off limits to babies under three months, and the youngest age for travelling out of the country by portkey was eighteen months except in extenuating circumstances. International magical travel for newborns was a tiresome and bureaucratic process, and since the Dark Lord now controlled the Ministry and all the possible channels of communication, Camilla knew that she would not be able to get the necessary permits to move Susie without alerting the very people they wanted to protect her from, and they would not be able to travel illegally for exactly the same reason.

Camilla's pacing came to a halt. They were trapped in their house, and she only hoped that they could defend their small domain when the time inevitably came. Camilla was no spring chicken but she knew the average arsenal of combat spells. Average wouldn't be enough against a trained army of killers, however. Finn had the best chances, but he had learned his way through the corps unwillingly and was not as skilled as the comrades who practised their efforts with glee. And Mareike… Well, Mareike might just surprise them all. Camilla paused outside the make-shift nursery and listened to Mareike's voice singing an out-of-key lullaby in the old tongue of her forefathers, one that not even Camilla could understand. Motherhood had changed the young woman, that much was clear to see. She was truly in her element; she had found her calling in life. When Camilla had first met her, she had been a reserved, fearful girl, barely out of her teens, but as her pregnancy had gone on, she seemed to have regained the spark that Finn so often lamented the loss of. Certainly, Mareike was not an exemplary wandswoman, nor would she be the life and soul of the party in a hurry, but Camilla knew that she could be fierce when she wanted to be, and if her beloved child was threatened, then there was no doubting that her fire would be in full force. Camilla had felt the same way when her own children had been helpless newborns, and she still felt the same ferocity when she thought of her Alexandra, lost in a foreign grave in a foreign land, her whereabouts unknown and her soul alone.

Camilla resumed her walk through the house, coming to a halt in the front of the last door on the landing and taking a deep breath before placing her hand on the handle. The lioness of motherhood was roaring in her chest once more, and she knew that it was now or never. She was standing in front of Daniel's room, a room that had been sealed ever since he made the decision to leave his fretting mother who was so determined to hold him back from his goal of greatness. Camilla remembered the discussion bitterly; it was a moment that she replayed over and over in her lowest ebb. The moment in which she knew that she had failed as a mother, and Evan had failed as a father. She had sealed the room after Daniel had left, unable to face the memory of the boy she no longer knew.

She tapped her wand against the lock and the door swung open slowly, creaking through three years of non-use. The room looked so deceptively normal; the domain of any teenage wizard. Daniel was no longer living at home when he had made the decision to join the corps; he had long since established himself as a man of independent means, but there was something about his final severance that had made Camilla need to create some distance between them in her house, and his room had been a constant reminder.

She had already vowed to protect Susie and not repeat her mistakes, but it was in that moment, faced with so many memories of her own beloved children, that Camilla promised herself something else. Like Finn, she knew where her priorities lay, and Camilla's priority had always and would always be her family.

"Oh Allie," she murmured. "I will not rest till I find out the truth."

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**Note2: **Onwards, the fun doesn't stop there! I think you can all guess what's coming next but I don't think anyone will guess the ending… *Cackles with glee.*


	51. Once a Mother

**Note: **The second part of today's update and the second part of this slightly separate arc. This was actually one of the first chapters I wrote. It's been sitting patiently waiting to be posted for almost a year now whilst I got everything else written that comes before it. I hope you like it.

* * *

**Chapter Fifty-One**

**Once a Mother**

Bellatrix twirled her wand around her fingers idly as she waited for her companion, looking up at the house that stood in darkness in front of her. Oh, how little its occupants knew what was in store for them. Such a fool, Thorfinn, for ignoring the call in favour of your family, she thought, a smile playing across her lips. And now, we'll make sure that such a terrible lapse of judgement never happens again. The Dark Lord must always come first, Bellatrix thought darkly, and some primal part of her wondered how anyone could see this plain fact any differently. She had not grieved her husband; why should she? He was not her main concern in this life. When, or rather if, the Dark Lord fell, then she would grieve, but for now she would continue to serve him unswervingly.

A crack next to her ear heralded the arrival of the fellow she had chosen as her assistance on this particular mission. It had been an easy choice, but a wise one nonetheless.

"Does it bring back fond memories?" she asked politely.

"Hardly." Daniel Rosier stared coldly at the façade of his childhood home. "The last time I was here I almost strangled my mother." He spat on the ground angrily. "Such a misguided witch… How could she think that my father's death would put me off joining his hallowed ranks?"

Bellatrix smiled wickedly. Oh yes, she had definitely made the right decision in choosing Daniel. He would have no qualms about taking on his own mother, the matriarch that presided over this domain, in combat. Camilla on the other hand, in her very nature as the mother figure of the group, would not be so carefree. Indeed, it would take a miracle for Camilla Rosier to raise her wand against her own son, no matter how much he was estranged from her; no matter how much the rest of her family was threatened.

"Shall we?" she asked, indicating the front door. Daniel grinned.

"Yes… I feel that a little family reunion is in order. Dear me, this is going to be rather interesting. If only my dear sister was here to complete the set."

There was something in Daniel's voice that struck a chord in Bellatrix. It was a note of contentment, a note of triumph almost. It was highly unlikely, in her mind at least, that there would be a full reunion of the Rosier family any time soon.

Without further hesitation, Daniel stepped up to the front door and knocked sharply. Bellatrix remained a couple of steps behind, hidden in the shadows and listening to the sounds of the house. She heard soft footsteps making their way cautiously along the corridors to the door. A smile of satisfaction ghosted across her face. Camilla was afraid, afraid of opening her own front door. She knew how precarious her position was, and her paranoia was commendable. However, it was about to be put sorely to the test.

"Who is it?" asked Camilla's voice through the door, muffled by the wood but undeniably firm and suspicious. Daniel rolled his eyes and Bellatrix stifled a snort. As if that was going to deter any would-be malefactors. As if that was going to deter them.

"It's your son, Mother," Daniel called. "I know it's been a little while."

It was more than a little while, thought Bellatrix. If what she had overheard was true, then Daniel and Camilla hadn't spoken for the best part of three years. There was silence behind the door, and Bellatrix wondered what Camilla was thinking, and which of the conflicting emotions of motherly love and sensible suspicion would win out. Bellatrix herself had never held any sort of maternal urges, and she would freely admit that the concept of a love so strong that it encompassed all else was completely foreign to her. She had seen it of course; her own sister was unfortunately a prime example of the maternal instinct. Narcissa would do anything to protect her son; she had risked life and limb in going against the Dark Lord's word and seeking Snape's help and advice last year. And since Camilla would happily care for any woeful stray that limped across her path, Bellatrix could surely count on her not to shut out her own flesh and blood. As if on cue, the door opened a fraction and Camilla's tired face appeared, peering around the frame. To her credit, she did not lower her raised wand the moment she saw him, it took a full minute for her maternal urge to take over.

"Hello, Mother," said Daniel brightly.

"What are you doing here?" asked Camilla warily, her eyes narrowed.

"I don't suppose, considering the circumstances in which we last parted, that 'I simply wanted to see how you are' is a viable excuse?"

The pained look in Camilla's eyes was all too clear to see. The irreconcilable fallout between her and Daniel was still an open wound, going against her helplessly motherly nature as it did. Daniel was rubbing salt into it, and Bellatrix nodded her approval. It was in this moment that Camilla noticed the others witch's presence in the shadows.

"Bellatrix Lestrange," she said coolly. Her gaze flew from Bellatrix to Daniel and back again. "So this is how it is to be," she said under her breath.

"May we come in, Camilla?" asked Bellatrix plainly, pointing her wand at the corridor behind the door. Camilla looked her visitors up and down, and Bellatrix could see the effort that it took her to speak the next simple word.

"No."

She shut the door in Daniel's face and Bellatrix heard it magically bolt itself.

"How rude," said Daniel, taking a step back. "Well, since it is technically my house, I feel no qualms about a little material destruction in the pursuit of our goal." He raised his wand. "Shall we?"

Bellatrix nodded, and the front door flew off its hinges with the combined force of their spells. They stepped into the house together and immediately had to duck the curse that flew over their heads, missing them by a fraction of an inch. Rowle was standing in the hallway and Bellatrix cursed her foolish miscalculation. She had not counted on Rowle's presence, although since his non-attendance at the Dark Lord's side was the very reason for their mission, she couldn't explain why it had slipped her mind. She and Daniel were now outnumbered three to two. She cast a glance across at her comrade as she threw a hex back. He didn't seem to be at all perturbed by this sudden setback, in fact his eyes gleamed, relishing the challenge.

"Well?" he said to Bellatrix. "What are you waiting for? Give them any longer and they'll slither away."

Bellatrix launched herself up the stairs, to the source of the other sounds within the house, namely the grating cries of an infant in distress. She blasted the doors open until she found what she was searching for.

Bellatrix had never met Mareike Rowle. She had not expected her to be quite so small, nor so young. She was barely a child herself; little wonder that Camilla has taken her under her proverbial wing. And, in the split-second after making this assessment of the woman in front of her, Bellatrix realised that she had not expected Mareike, for all that she had heard about the shy and fearful girl, to be quite so violent. She only just managed to deflect the vicious hex that was sent her way as she entered the room. But, as Bellatrix reflected, hurling a curse of her own, she should really have known better. After all, Mareike was a mother, if a very new one, and mothers, as she had witnessed first-hand, were notoriously protective.

"Don't you dare come near my baby," Mareike hissed, and she went to cast a stunning spell. Recovering from being taken by surprise, Bellatrix smiled. Mareike was defending purely with offence, letting her angry heart rule her head. She was leaving herself wide open for…

"Expelliarmus," said Bellatrix leisurely, and both Mareike and Camilla's wands flew into her waiting hand. Mareike, for all her youth, didn't bat an eyelid. Her face held no signs of fear, only anger and determination. Camilla, on the other hand, was petrified, but not for herself. She was thinking of those she cared for. The two women were trapped and defenceless. Bellatrix laughed as she advanced towards them, taking her time. This was going to be extremely easy.

"Cam," said Mareike, backing up towards the older woman, who was cradling the still-grizzling baby against her chest. Mareike's stance was curled in a slight crouch, as if she was preparing herself to launch into a frenzied physical attack on the woman who held her wand,. It was truly amazing, the stupid lengths that some women would go to in order to protect their offspring. Presumably Mareike was aware that such an action would be an effective death sentence? Bellatrix raised an eyebrow; perhaps motherhood had made her think herself invincible. "_Kamin_," she finished. Bellatrix didn't understand German, but Cam's eyes flickered towards the empty fireplace.

"Mari…" she began.

"_GEH!_" howled Mareike.

"Oh no," said Bellatrix, and she felt the familiar thrill begin to race through her veins as the words of the unforgiveable formed on her lips. Powerless to assist, since throwing herself in front of her younger friend placed the baby directly in the firing line, Camilla closed her eyes. In the same moment as Mareike fell in a blaze of green, Bellatrix felt a sharp pain in the back of her neck. She spun round and found herself face to face with her sister.

"Cissy?" she asked in disbelief.

"The door was open," hissed Narcissa. "I believe that was your doing, Bella."

"What are you doing here?" asked Bellatrix, truly surprised to see her sister. Had she followed them to Camilla's house? What possible reason did she have for being here? There was no way in which it could be a coincidence. Narcissa didn't deign to reply, instead launching a hex at Bellatrix and forcing her older sister to retaliate in kind.

"Cam!" Narcissa yelled as she deflected Bellatrix's curse and sent one back. "Get out of here!"

Cam stood petrified in front of the fireplace, her eyes fixed on the doorway. Both of the warring witches turned to see what had captured her attention. Daniel stood in the frame, black robes stained darker still with blood that was most definitely not his own. There could be no doubt that the child in his mother's arms was now an orphan, or as good as. He smiled and raised his wand directly towards Camilla and the baby, turning his head on one side as if he was considering the most entertaining way to kill them.

"Daniel," said Camilla warily. "You've killed Finn; what's the point of killing us? What will it achieve?"

"I never leave a job half-done, Mother," Daniel mocked. "You yourself taught me that."

"CAM!" screamed Narcissa, and this time the older woman needed no encouragement, grabbing a handful of powder from the mantel and stepping into the roaring green flames that it created in one fluid motion, not caring as to her ultimate destination. Bellatrix, who had been morbidly fascinated by the exchange, just had enough time to dodge her sister's next curse. She had to hand it to Narcissa, she was and always had been a skilled duellist, but not skilled enough to take on two Death Eaters well-practised in mortal combat.

"Daniel," she called, hoping that he would take the hint and join her in her fight, but there was no reply. Bellatrix narrowed her eyes and finally managed to subdue Narcissa's ferocious attack with a well-placed burning hex, allowing her to seek out her comrade. She turned to see Daniel's eyes flickering between the fireplace, still glowing green, and the two witches. "Daniel!" she repeated, sharper this time, "help me with Narcissa; it will only take a second…" Narcissa had the gall to laugh at this suggestion.

"You do realise that if you kill me Bella, you'll sign your own death warrant?"

It was Bellatrix's turn to laugh.

"I hardly fear the retribution of a wandless man, Cissy."

"Oh, Lucius won't need his wand. He'll murder you with his bare hands."

Bellatrix ignored her sister momentarily and called back to Daniel once more, but he wasn't listening to her. He had already run across the room and flung himself into the fireplace as the green flames died, catching onto the tail of his mother's disappearance, intent on following her to her destination, wherever that might be. He was going to follow through on what it was that he had been tasked with, despite the fact that what Camilla had said was true – there was no point in disposing of Rowle's child to assure his future acquiescence now that he himself was dead, or as good as. But, there again, Daniel had his own methods, and Bellatrix was ninety per cent certain that he had followed his mother with the intention of catching up with her alone; his reasons completely unrelated to her newborn charge. Of course, it would be a shame not to make a clean sweep of it…

Narcissa was recovering from the burn and Bellatrix raised her wand to cast again but her sister was quicker, a strong shield, invisible but tangible, springing up between them. There was nothing that Bellatrix could do now except cast moderate spells to weaken the shield, a tiresome task, but at least Narcissa could not attack back without breaking the protection that held between them. And, reflected the older witch, this did give her a chance to find out precisely how her little sister had managed to arrive in exactly the right place at precisely the right time.

"You never answered my question, Cissy," she said, casually launching a hex at the shield. It shimmered slightly but it held fast. "What are you doing here?"

"I had a feeling you would be coming here when you and Daniel left tonight." Narcissa was panting, winded thanks to the effort of creating such a complex, impenetrable shield. "I'm sorry I didn't arrive sooner." She was staring at Mareike's body, slumped face down on the bedroom carpet in front of an empty crib. Bellatrix laughed cruelly at the sorrow that was etched into her sister's face.

"I still don't see why you felt the need to follow me," she said, but before Narcissa could reply, a noise from the doorway made them both look round.

"Mari…"

Rowle was standing there, leaning in the frame and covered with blood, scarlet smeared all over the glossy woodwork where he held it. He had evidently dragged himself up the stairs from where he had fallen at Daniel's hands. Bellatrix cast a simple spell to finish him off but it ricocheted off an invisible forcefield and was finally absorbed into the shield. Oh, clever Cissy… The shield was not merely a line between the two of them; it had encompassed Bellatrix completely like a cage. She watched as her sister crossed the room towards Rowle.

"Mari…" he repeated as he stumbled into the bedroom, his eyes fixed on his dead wife. As Narcissa reached him, he seemed to notice the witches' presence for the first time. "Where's Susie?" he asked, choking on blood.

"Cam has her," soothed Narcissa. "She's safe."

It was a bare-faced lie, of course she wasn't safe when Daniel had chased after her, but Narcissa's pathetic side wasn't going to let this small detail disturb Rowle in his dying moments. He smiled weakly, blood trickling in a thin rivulet from his lips, and he too slumped but a few metres from Mareike.

There was silence and stillness for a minute.

"You asked me why I felt the need to follow you," said Narcissa, not looking up from Rowle.

"I did."

"All I can say is that I am a mother, Bellatrix, just as Cam is, just as Mareike was. Once a mother, always a mother. And a mother…" she finished coldly, facing her sister and raising her wand, the stunning spell so sudden and so unexpected, ripping through her own shield, that Bellatrix didn't have time to deflect it before it hit her squarely in the chest, "… will always protect a baby."

* * *

**Note2: **Onwards, to the conclusion of this mini-saga!


	52. Familial Ties

**Note: **Third and final part of today's update and the conclusion of this slightly separate arc. Forewarning – it does walk a little on the dark side…

* * *

**Chapter Fifty-Two**

**Familial Ties**

Considering that they were muggles who, in spite of everything, were absolutely determined to believe that magic didn't exist, the Dursleys had proved remarkably easy to protect. Hestia pondered the family's mixed fortunes as she stood in the small kitchen of their safehouse, stirring her tea with her wand to keep it warm whilst her mind was too preoccupied to drink. On the whole, they had borne their sudden upheaval remarkably stoically, and to Hestia's relief they never asked awkward questions. In a way, she was thankful for their resistance to magic which kept them in the dark, but at other times their ignorance exasperated her. She could not keep an eagle eye on them all the time, and since they refused to talk about magic, she could never be sure if they would recognise a threat when they saw one.

Her colleagues in the Order's hastily improvised muggle protection scheme had asked her on occasion why they bothered to protect the Dursleys when it was obvious that there was no love lost between them and Harry. After a few particularly trying instances early on in their tenure as tenants of the Order's surveillance, Hestia had wondered the same question herself. Ultimately, she came to the same conclusion every time her patience was on the verge of wearing thin. No single muggle life was less important than any other. If they gave up their charges like lambs to the slaughter, then they were no better than You-Know-Who himself. So despite the trials, tribulations, and very pointless arguments, Hestia stayed true to her vow to keep the Dursleys safe.

Petunia seemed to have borne the upheaval and the ever-present magic in the background far better than the menfolk of her household. Perhaps it was because she had been around magic, off and on, since childhood, and whilst she might not want to acknowledge such a fact, she was slightly more used to strange happenings than most. The woman was no longer the screeching harpy that Hestia had observed at various momentary intervals during Harry's younger years; she had withdrawn into herself almost completely since their move. This was probably due to her realising her own mortality, of seeing just how dangerous the world on whose edge she lived was. Dudley was also far quieter and far more adult in recent months, although the quivering lip of the spoilt child was still hovering just below the surface. Hestia had the most trouble with Vernon; arguments that were all but contradictions of each other and reiterations of the words that they had exchanged a hundred times. Hestia was a patient woman and she would never turn her wand on an unarmed muggle, but the dark thought of a silencing spell had crossed her mind on more than one occasion before Petunia had managed to bring her husband down from his self-inflicted state of ire. It was safe to say that Vernon brought out the worst in Hestia with his intolerance, and she in him with her representing a power that he feared since he could neither understand nor control it.

Hestia shook her head. The Dursley family had far more links to magic than they liked to admit, and a knowing voice in the back of her mind told her not to be at all surprised if Dudley went on to produce magical children in time. The way in which magic ran through the bloodlines and appeared suddenly in some families but was totally absent in others was a random science that never failed to fascinate; it led to the ultimate questions of 'where do we come from?' and 'what is the source of all magic?' Hestia finally took a sip of her tea, remembering to remove her wand before she poked herself in the eye with it. She had made it a custom to drop in on the Dursleys once a week, to check up on them, and normally she would be satisfied with a cursory visit, but today, both she and Dedalus had felt that there was something odd in the air, a sense of something about to happen.

Hestia was a practical-minded witch with a sensible head on her shoulders, and she knew that most of her contemporaries would not believe her when she told them that she had studied divination, but she had indeed studied it, and enjoyed the experience. True, she did not set much store by the more farfetched methods of soothsaying, but like the questions of the origins of magic, Hestia found the mysteries of the unknown and the yet-to-come fascinating from a scientific point of view. Today was a day of foreboding, so the tea leaves had said this morning, and this time, Hestia was inclined to agree with them. She listened to the faint noise of the television in the living room, trying to divine what was being watched. Having come to the conclusion that it was one of the seemingly endless streams of talent programmes which muggles enjoyed so much, Hestia returned her attention to her tea, and she began to read the residue for the second time that day. For the most part, she could not make out any shapes in the murky dregs, but she was almost certain that she foresaw the truth revealed.

She snorted. Such a thing would truly be a miracle; something of sense in their troubled times, with politicians and the Ministry spouting propaganda that was about as useful as an umbrella in a desert. When she was resorting to looking for the truth in her crockery, then there was something very wrong in the world. All the same, she couldn't get the foreboding feeling of something about to happen out of her mind.

It was in that very second that it happened. Above what sounded like a drunk Australian singing opera with morris dancing backing vocalists, Hestia heard the shimmering roar of a Floo fire, and a split second later a shrill scream. She rushed into the living room, not quite sure what to expect but with her wand outstretched and ready for battle. The Dursleys were pressed into the corner of the room furthest from the fireplace, where the last flames of a magical fire were casting an eerie emerald flicker around the dimly lit room. A figure was curled up on the hearth rug where it had evidently exited the grate, and it looked up as Hestia approached cautiously.

"Camilla?"

"Hestia?"

There could be no mistaking her old classmate, despite the thirty-odd years that had passed since they last saw each other. True, Hestia and Camilla had belonged to different houses and different social circles, and they had never been good friends, but they had studied charms together for seven years, and Hestia never forgot a face.

"What are you doing here?" asked Hestia incredulously, but before Camilla could answer, the bundle that she held so tightly and carefully began to howl, and it was only at that moment that Hestia recognised it as a baby. She held out her arms to take the child and allow the other witch to get up. Camilla gave her dusty robes a cursory brush down before taking her tiny travelling companion and cooing to it.

"Excuse me," came Vernon's voice from behind them, and Hestia knew without looking that his moustache would be bristling in anticipation of a good argument. She had really been around this family for far too long. "Who are you, and why are you in our house?"

"It's a long story," said Camilla, finally succeeding in getting the baby to quieten down. "I needed help and this was the nearest fireplace."

"Erm… Right."

Hestia turned to see the Dursleys looking utterly confused and more than a little scared. Vernon was opening and closing his mouth with no words coming out, no doubt trying to formulate some sort of bracing command but failing to think of something fitting in the circumstances. Dudley had gone a pale shade of green.

"Would you like a cup of tea?" asked Petunia faintly, resorting to the muggle cure for all ills. Tea was really a remarkable restorative, Hestia knew from her own experience, and she often thought that the simple brew was far better than most medicinal potions available on the market. Camilla was evidently of the same opinion, for she nodded wearily. The Dursleys filed out of the room, visibly glad to be leaving the presence of such strange goings on.

"Muggles, I take it?" asked Camilla. Hestia nodded.

"Important muggles," she said. "Your child?" she added, indicating the baby. Camilla shook her head.

"My goddaughter." She sank into a sagging armchair and wiped her eyes on her sleeve, cradling the baby in one practised arm. "She's an orphan, Hestia. She's got no blood family left. Her mother was murdered before my eyes and I would have been next. I've no wand, I just flung myself into the fireplace and prayed. I didn't know I was going to end up here." She paused and swallowed. "I know we never saw eye to eye, Hestia, but I've never been more pleased to see a familiar face in my life."

Silently, Hestia released the other witch's grip on her goddaughter, allowing her to crumple into her rapidly oncoming grief and misery.

"Her father was a Death Eater who turned his back," she explained through muffled sobs. "We knew it was only going to be a matter of time, but everything happened so suddenly. Her mother had only just turned twenty-three for crying out loud. And Daniel, my Daniel, my son… What have you done?"

Hestia wanted to say something, anything to try and relieve the intense picture of despair that was being painted in front of her, but she had no idea what to say that would not sound clichéd. She knew as well as anyone else that Camilla had married a Death Eater and that he had been killed, and that her son had taken up his mantle. The life that Camilla had led was so far removed from her own that she could not imagine the other witch's feelings. She had never lost a soulmate, much less a child, and now it seemed that Camilla had lost far more than that.

The roar of the fireplace prevented either woman from speaking again, and both looked towards the flames with alarm. The figure that beagn to materialise in the flames was unknown to Hestia, but she did not need to guess twice to work out who it was.

"Oh Merlin, he must have caught the tail of the Floo," murmured Camilla. "Get Susie out of here."

"Camilla, you're wandless,"

"Susie's more important. Go!"

Hestia ran for the living room door and closed it behind her, screwing her eyes tight shut and trying desperately to think of what to do now. Her immediate thought was to get everyone out of the house and somewhere else.

"Hello, Mother," came a disarmingly mild voice from the other side of the door, and Hestia was spurred into action. She ran into the kitchen with Susie beginning to grizzle in her arms, causing the gathered Dursleys to jump out of their skins.

"We need to leave. Now."

"Now listen here…" began Vernon, his face turning a worrying shade of purple. "I will not…"

"Vernon," warned Petunia, but it was too late. Already buoyed up on adrenaline and worry, Hestia finally snapped.

"Mr Dursley, if you want to be murdered for no other reason than the fact you happen to exist, then by all means stay here; I don't care. I've been charged with keeping this child safe, and I am going to do so."

Vernon paled, and Hestia turned on her heel, stalking out of the kitchen towards the front door, but it was locked, stuck fast. She tried to open it with magic but it was not going to budge, however hard she tried. Daniel had sealed them in the house, and Hestia knew that it was the newborn in her arms that he wanted.

A thundering crash came from the living room, followed by a low groan, and Hestia's blood ran cold. Since she couldn't carry out Camilla's first wish of bringing Susie to safety, the only way she could afford her protection was to face he who threatened her head on.

"What's happening?" asked Petunia, coming out into the hall and casting a worried glance at the living room door.

"We can't leave the house," said Hestia. She handed Susie to Petunia, who did not seem as alarmed by the gesture as she might have expected. "Stay in the kitchen, all of you, and don't come out."

"What are you doing?"

But Hestia didn't answer. She drew her wand once more and advanced towards the living room, opening the door a fraction and peering around to view the scene within.

If there was one Death Eater who could prove the common perception that they were all evil to the core and incapable of human feeling, then it was Daniel Rosier. The expression of glee on his face was disturbing as he advanced towards Camilla, who was slumped against the far wall.

"Daniel," she murmured, but the pain that filled her voice was not physical, simply pure mental anguish. "Daniel, what happened to you? What happened to my sweet little boy? Did we really raise you to be a murderer? How many times did your father warn you not to follow in his footsteps? How many times did I warn you?"

Daniel laughed, and the harsh sound grated on Hestia's ears. She decided to make use of his distraction and flung open the door, flinging a random curse at him. Daniel was well-trained in magical combat, however, and he blocked the spell and disarmed her in one lazy motion. He turned away from his mother and regarded Hestia with interest.

"An interesting choice for the cavalry," he said, "but I can deal with you later."

Hestia tried to back up towards the door, knowing that there was nothing she could do to help Camilla or anyone else now that she had no wand, but she had only taken a few steps when Daniel petrified her and she landed awkwardly on the sofa. He returned his attention to Camilla, and Hestia could only watch helplessly.

"Oh, Mummy dearest, you have no idea, do you? Glory, that's what awaits us. Eternal glory, which you tried to keep from me. You betrayed us, you and Rowle and his little wife, and those who go behind my master's back must pay the price."

His grin became terrifying and he leaned in to Camilla's face.

"Just like my sweet sister. She could have answered the call too; she could have shared my glory, but no, she ran away, like a coward. She ran all the way to America, but she couldn't run forever. I found her in the end."

"Alexandra… Your own sister… Oh Daniel… How could you?"

"Very easily," he replied. "Like this."

Hestia could not close her eyes as green flashed through the room, but she knew that Camilla Rosier was dead in her heart long before the curse had hit. Even in school, Camilla's family was of utmost importance, family above everything. Daniel's ultimate betrayal had destroyed her.

"And now to finish the job," said Daniel matter-of-factly. He paused, and looked down at Camilla's body, at the tears streaks falling from glassy, lifeless eyes. For a split second, something human flickered in his face, and he reached down and closed her lids. He turned to Hestia, walking towards her leisurely. "Where's the baby?" he asked plainly. "I can't promise not to harm you if you don't tell me where she is, but I'd far rather finish that job before I get started on another." He paused. "Why am I even asking? I know she's somewhere in the house, and it is hardly of palatial proportions."

Hestia saw something out of the corner of her eye as Daniel raised his wand, and before he could cast the dreaded curse, there was a resounding thwack and he fell to the ground. Dudley stood behind him, a cricket bat held tightly in his hands. Gradually he released his grip and held out one shaking hand to help her up. Able to move again, Hestia looked down at Daniel's body grimly.

"Is he… Is he dead?" asked Dudley.

Hestia remained silent. If Daniel was still alive then she would still be under the effects of his curse. No, Dudley's blow had killed him, there was no doubt of that, but she knew that to say as much to the boy would not be a good idea. She bent down and feigned taking his pulse, picking up her wand where he had held it as she did so.

"No," she lied through gritted teeth, aware that she was not at her most convincing. "Just stunned."

Dudley looked relieved and Hestia stood once more. They looked at each other for a moment, something of a newfound understanding passing between them.

"Thank you," she said. "You saved my life."

"Don't mention it," muttered Dudley. He looked over at Camilla's body. "Is she dead?"

Hestia nodded sadly.

"Go on, Dudley, I'll call someone to get this mess sorted out," she said. "It shouldn't take too long. I know I can't exactly tell you to forget about it, but try not to think about it. You're remarkably courageous."

Dudley shrugged and left the room, still visibly shaken from what had just occurred. Hestia took a few deep breaths, she was barely composed herself, and cast her patronus, speaking a succinct message to the rabbit and sending it to Dedalus. She came out of the living room, unable to be in the presence of so much violent death any longer, and she locked the door before going into the kitchen. Vernon and Dudley were standing outside on the small patio, seemingly oblivious to the cold of the night. Petunia was seated at the kitchen table, humming softly to a still-grizzling Susie. Hestia sat opposite her.

"I take it that she has no family now," said Petunia.

Hestia shook her head.

"I thought as much." She paused and gave a sad sigh. "I love babies. Babies are easy. You feed them, you wash them, you sing to them, and they love you. They can't tell you what they need or want, but you understand them perfectly. But then they grow up, and as soon as they can speak, you stop understanding them. I've brought up two babies, and now look where they are. Where did it all go wrong? I'd give anything for another chance, third time lucky." She shook her head. "But all babies grow up."

She held out Susie to Hestia.

"That's why you've got to take her somewhere far better than here before I get too attached." She touched Susie's hand and her tiny fingers enclosed around Petunia's larger one. "Good luck, little one."

The doorbell sounded and Hestia went to answer it. She explained the situation to Dedalus and Tonks as best she could, but she felt a sudden desperation to be out of the house. Luckily, her colleagues seemed to understand her feelings and she stepped out into the gloom as they entered to take care of everything. She looked down at Susie, at the young orphan whose care had been entrusted to her, and whose entire family, birth and adopted, had been murdered in cold blood. It was a dark, dark world that she had been born into, and Hestia could only pray that it would get better, and soon.

* * *

**Note2: **Well, I wanted to bring the Dursleys back into it somehow… We're back with the main action next chapter, but I was having fun exploring the contrasts between two totally different sets of Death Eaters – Bellatrix and Daniel who love what they do and accept their calling whole-heartedly, and Rowle, who hates every minute of it.


	53. Uncovered

**Note:** Back in Hogwarts where we belong. Not much else to say but enjoy, because we are coming to what is known in common parlance as 'crunch time'. Yes folks, after however long it is, we are coming to the beginning of a very long and very drawn out end…

* * *

**Chapter Fifty-Three**

**Uncovered**

It was no cliché, thought Harry; bad things really did come in threes. The downward spiral that had begun with Voldemort's brief excursion into his mind after the destruction of the diadem had merely worsened with the lockdown of the school and it had now reached its pinnacle. Harry knew that he was dreaming, or rather, he knew that he was in a half-dreamlike state, the state in which the connection between his thoughts and Voldemort's was at its strongest and most potent. He could feel the soft mattress of his four-poster beneath him; he could sense that the space around his physical form was in Gryffindor tower, but the scene that his closed eyes were seeing was completely different. He was once more in the drawing room of the Manor, but this time there was no sign of its owners. The only other person in the room was Bellatrix Lestrange, standing by the fireplace wearing an expression that if Harry did not know her temperament better, he would say was worry.

"_You and Daniel did well, Bellatrix," _said the foreign tongue in Harry's mouth. _"I believe you sent a clear message to any others of our ranks considering altering their priorities."_

Bellatrix seemed to relax slightly as Voldemort continued to speak.

"_Nothing is more important than our goal. It is a shame that we lost Daniel, his skills would have proved useful, but then again, his bulldog determination to wipe out his entire family tree might have proved to be a dangerous distraction in the grander scheme of things, just as it proved to be his own undoing. Much as I admire his efforts to purify the bloodline, as such actions are always worthy, I believe that the point has been made. No-one diverges from the path. Not now. Not when the end and our victory is still in sight."_

Bellatrix smiled.

"_Of course not, my Lord. I did warn him that…" _She broke off suddenly, a perplexed expression on her face, and then the traces of worry began to creep back into her visage as she looked up at her master. Harry felt a wave of cruel amusement at her nervousness creep through his veins, a feeling that was not his own.

"_There is one thing, however, that intrigues me, Bellatrix," _he continued. _"Who else was there?"_

"_There was no-one there,"_ said Bellatrix quickly, too quickly. _"It was just me and Daniel, and…"_

But the rest of Bellatrix's pattering excuses were lost as the scene in front of Harry's eyes, playing out simultaneously whilst he slept, changed suddenly. He was somewhere else entirely, in a dimly lit bedroom watching Bellatrix fight a young blonde woman whom Harry had never seen before, but whose face was known to the wizard whose mind he shared. He was now in Bellatrix's memories, carried along as a legilimency passenger. Three minds touching each other at once, all fighting to keep out the intruding presence and recognise the threat. Harry felt his head begin to pound; he had never experienced this sensation before and he was not fully aware of what was happening, only of the sensation that there was now so much information being fed directly to his brain from two different sources that he felt as if his head couldn't hold it all and was about to explode at any moment. He tried his hardest to break the connection of his own accord, but he already knew that it was useless, and the more he tried to fight, the more he made his presence in Voldemort's mind known, and the consequences thereof might have been even worse.

Suddenly, at the same moment as Bellatrix's killing curse connected with her opponent in her memories, everything went black. Harry thought that perhaps he had somehow managed to pull himself out of the two minds, to sever the connection somehow without any action on his part, but the crippling pain in the back of his head still remained.

All of a sudden he found himself back in the drawing room, and the tension immediately lessened, reduced to a dull throbbing.

"_I am intrigued as to how come you do not remember anything that happened between this moment and your waking up in a veritable mortuary,"_ Voldemort said calmly.

"_I… I assumed that Rowle was the cause."_

It was obvious, however, that Bellatrix did not fully believe her own words, and that Voldemort was never going to accept the veracity of them.

"_Bellatrix, the extent of Rowle's injuries at the hands of your bloodthirsty colleague make me incredulous that he managed to drag himself up the stairs, let alone perform powerful combative magic and memory charms." _There was a pause, and Harry felt Voldemort's disgust as he spoke his next words. _"The foolish lengths that people will go to for love."_

For the first time in all the occasions that Harry had been in the presence of Bellatrix, she looked completely terrified.

"_Nevertheless, the point of the exercise was aptly expressed and whatever may have occurred, the ends excuse the means."_

Bellatrix's relief was almost palpable and a smile of self-satisfaction spread over her features.

"_Moreover," _ Voldemort continued_, "looking into your memories proved most useful to me for other reasons. Bellatrix, there is a rat to be caught."_

Harry woke up with a gasp, the connection suddenly severed as if someone had thrown a bucket of cold water over him. It was obvious that Voldemort had become aware of the once more open connection and had thrown Harry out of his mind, the effects so strong that they were almost physical. He opened his eyes to find Ron's blurred shape looking down at him.

"You alright mate?" he asked. Harry nodded, shook his head and nodded again before reaching for his glasses in order to see Ron's expression of disbelief in sharper relief.

"You were in his head again, weren't you?"

It was almost a rhetorical question and Harry knew that lying would have brought him absolutely nothing whatsoever, so he merely nodded again.

"I thought so." Ron paused. "You didn't say anything this time though; no laughter. I wasn't quite sure why I'd woken up until I saw you. Rigid and shaking. I tried to wake you up but then I thought that might do more harm than good." Ron sat down heavily on the end of the Harry's bed. "Who was he torturing this time?"

Harry shook his head.

"No-one. I'd probably have started laughing hysterically if he was. I think he came close for a moment though. He was talking to Bellatrix, looking into her mind. Then something seemed to distract him and I woke up. He must have realised that I was eavesdropping, so to speak."

"What did he say?"

"Something about rats, I can't remember right now." Harry sat up in bed, very awake and alert after his mental journey.

"Come on," said Ron, "let's go to the common room; we can talk without waking everyone up."

Harry nodded his agreement; it would probably help his muddled mind to order the past few minutes' experiences if he was in a neutral place away from the dormitory where the scene had unfolded, so to speak, despite his consciousness having been miles away at the time. They left the room silently, the others giving no indication of having been disturbed by the strange nocturnal events.

Hermione was waiting for them; Harry had half-expected her to be there.

"I couldn't sleep," she said. "I thought that something might have happened. Another dream?"

Harry nodded.

"Anything useful?" probed Hermione.

"I don't know." Harry sighed. "The connection's random, based on emotions. It's not like I only tune in when Voldemort's saying something particularly interesting. He and Bellatrix were discussing a singularly successful assassination."

"Who was it?" asked Hermione.

Harry explained what he had seen.

"That's just… wrong," said Hermione after Harry had finished. She shook her head in disbelief.

"It makes you wonder though," said Ron. "Why do they join up, these people? They work for a maniac who regularly kills and tortures his own followers simply to make a point. Surely the promised material gain can't be enough to cancel that out, and they can't all be stark raving bonkers like Bellatrix. Mind you…"

"It's fear," said Harry. "You know what they say – if you can't beat them, join them." He thought back to the woman that he had seen so briefly in Bellatrix's memories, of the sound of a baby crying as her mother fought for her life, and he wondered what had happened to the orphaned child. "The best way of protecting your family from a maniac is to join the maniac, although it doesn't always work like that."

"Surely, though, the mass murdering of someone's family is going to have the opposite effect to subservience, though," said Ron. "When you've got nothing to lose anymore, then you're less likely to do as you're told because the worst that can happen has already happened."

"It's completely illogical," Harry agreed. "But then, logic probably isn't the highest priority on a mad megalomaniac intent on nation-if-not-world domination's list."

"On the contrary," said Hermione weakly, "it's extremely logical. That wasn't about Rowle, it was about the rest of them, a warning. Think about it. I know that the mind of a Death Eater isn't the nicest place to be but think about it. There's already been dissent in the ranks, you've only got to look at Rodolphus Lestrange at Christmas, and he was one of the most loyal. If anyone else is thinking about absconding, well, you've now got the perfect deterrent. Oh, we won't do anything to you, we'll just butcher your family."

"It worked with Malfoy," Ron observed drily.

Harry shuddered.

"Can we please change the subject?" he asked.

"No," said Hermione shortly. "Neither you nor Voldemort can really control these moments in which your minds blend together. We've got to use these opportunities; they might give us an advantage."

"Hermione, he practically threw me out of his mind. He knew I was there. He knew what I'd seen, so how on Earth is that an advantage?"

"I don't know," said Hermione, her voice becoming increasingly exasperated. "All I'm saying is that we can't simply cast this aside."

"Something about rats," said Ron, repeating Harry's words from earlier after he had just woken. "Can you remember what he said exactly?"

"There is a rat to be caught," quoted Harry from his dream.

"It couldn't be Wormtail, he's dead, isn't he?"

"Yes, long dead." Harry shuddered as he thought back to the August night when he had seen Wormtail die, a victim of his own life debt.

"I doubt that it's a physical rat," said Hermione.

"I thought he meant me, inside his head," said Harry. "Spying on his thoughts."

"A spy…" Hermione tailed off and looked at Harry.

Harry felt his blood run cold.

"He was inside my head," he said. "He was inside my head and Bellatrix's at the same time, looking at memories, but he didn't sever the connection straight away when he knew I was there." Harry didn't want to say the next few words, but he knew that they had to be spoken aloud. "He knows Snape's true allegiance."

There was a moment of horribly cold silence in which the trio felt the horrible truth of the words sink in deep. Voldemort knew Snape's true allegiance. Voldemort was going to catch the rat in his ranks. That meant, in all probability, that Voldemort would be coming to the castle to find him.

"We've got to tell Professor McGonagall," Harry said, jumping out of his seat.

"Harry, it's four o'clock in the morning," said Ron.

"Ronald, this is a matter of life and death!" exclaimed Hermione. "If Voldemort's on an angry rampage then I hardly think that he's going to wait till the castle's had breakfast!"

Ron jumped up as well.

"You're right."

Together they ran for the portrait hole, not caring how much noise they made in their quest to see the headmistress, and oblivious to the fact that they were all still wearing their pyjamas. All three had only one goal in mind, and that was to find Professor McGonagall and warn her, but what could be done against the shadowy threat that was now hanging over them, maybe ready to strike at any moment?

They thundered through the corridors, the way to the head's office seeming even longer than usual; they were almost there when they had to skid to a halt in order to avoid running headlong into another presence in the corridors.

Snape raised an eyebrow at them, demanding a full explanation without the need for words.

Harry looked from Ron to Hermione and back again, wondering how to begin. 'Hello, Voldemort's found out that you're a traitor and he's probably going to kill you any minute…'

"I presume," said Snape coolly when none of the trio spoke, "that you have a very good reason for throwing yourselves around the castle at this time of a morning. I also presume, from the direction in which you were running, that your intended destination was the headmistress's office."

Harry nodded; it was far easier to stay silent and not have to explain.

It was Hermione that saved them.

"Harry and Voldemort's minds connected again," she explained. "We thought it best to inform Professor McGonagall immediately."

Snape was silent for a long time, but to Harry's great astonishment the time was not spent probing his mind for the information that he wished to impart to the headmistress. The deputy-head was staring into the middle-distance, in the direction of Professor McGonagall's office.

"Lead the way then, Potter," he said eventually. Still surprised at the ease of acquiescence, Harry restarted their journey at a slightly more sedate pace but with just enough speed to highlight the urgency of the situation. He heard Ron, Hermione and Snape fall into step behind him and they reached the stone griffon only a few moments later.

"Albus," he said, but the statue didn't move. The headmistress must have changed her password, and Harry was stumped. He turned to the others, trying not to let his rising panic show, but before he had chance to state the obvious, Snape stepped forward.

"Wulfric," he sighed, and the griffon stepped aside to allow them to pass. Snape stood back, ushering the students up the steps in front of him. Perhaps he did not want to be the one to wake Professor McGonagall at this ridiculous hour of the morning. Harry knocked before entering the office, musing on the fact that none of his previous visits during the headmistress's tenure had commenced with any degree of politeness in the way that they had entered her domain.

The door opened and they found themselves face to face with Professor McGonagall in her tartan dressing gown and hairnet, looking more than a little sleepy and more than a little incredulous. She let out a long exhalation on seeing who had come calling and began in what was becoming a time-honoured fashion:

"Why is it always you three?"

"I'm sorry, Professor, but this is urgent!"

Professor McGonagall looked at him, visibly wondering what could possibly be so urgent at three in the morning.

"I've had another dream," Harry continued, and he glanced back at Snape, willing him to go away. It was not that he did not want the defence teacher to hear, after all, he needed to know what Harry had seen as it pertained directly to his safety, but he knew that it would be far easier to tell the headmistress alone first, instead of feeling the scorn in Snape's stare on the back of his neck, decrying his poor occlumency. Luckily, Professor McGonagall picked up on the momentary look and nodded, inviting Harry into her office.

"Come in, Mr Potter, and tell me what you saw. Professor Snape, Miss Granger, Mr Weasley, if you could remain outside for a moment?"

They nodded and Harry stepped into the room, under the gaze of the portraits. Suddenly so many judgmental eyes on him made him half-wish to be back outside in the darkened landing with Snape and the others.

"What happened?" prompted Professor McGonagall after she closed the door.

Harry took a deep breath.

"Voldemort knows that Snape is on our side."

Professor McGonagall said nothing as she came back round to face Harry, her fingers reaching out for the wood of her desk and gripping tightly, as if she was afraid that her knees would give way and send her onto the floor should she not have a hold on something. She had gone chalk white. Harry gulped; the last thing he needed was for the headmistress to faint on him.

"Are… are you sure?" she asked, her voice tight and choked.

Harry nodded.

"I'm more certain than not," he added. "Voldemort had complete access to my mind, my memories. He would have seen, and then he determined that he needed to catch a rat. I am sure."

The professor stared at her desk for a long time.

"Please excuse me a moment," she said eventually, and she left the office by the discreet door off to one side that led to the rest of the head's quarters. Harry was left alone under the old and shrewd stares of the portraits.

"Well," began Phineas Nigellus.

"Oh, shut up," snapped Harry. "The last thing I need is your condescension. I'm feeling dreadful enough as it is without you helping."

The portrait sniffed and Harry thought that he might be left in peace, before the ex-headmaster spoke once more.

"Now do you see why Dumbledore was so reluctant to trust you with this information?" he asked. Although there was the ever-present sneer in his words, the question was not rhetorical and the portrait's grim face was in earnest. "You are unable to lock your head against intrusion and anyone, including and not limited to _him_ can come in and poke around, discovering all the secrets stored within."

Harry felt sick, because as callous and cutting as the words were, they were also horribly true. Who knew what else Voldemort might have found out through their mental connection? Almost unconsciously, Harry looked to the portrait that hung above the desk for advice. Dumbledore looked grave and nodded.

"It is true, Harry, that I did once again return to the philosophy that I so unwisely used during your fifth year, but this time with a slightly more concrete basis. I know that you will never be an extremely accomplished occlumens, and with information of this nature, I did not want to risk it coming to Voldemort's attention, through no immediate fault of your own. But accusations and blame laying will get us nowhere. The point remains that we have a situation on our hands that must be resolved, and we must resolve it quickly."

It was at this point that Professor McGonagall re-entered the room, still pale and shaking.

"Harry, I must speak with Professor Snape immediately; thank you for telling me what you have done, but I fear that there is nothing more that you can do for now."

Harry nodded and made to leave the room. There was no need for any formalities now, not when the course that they were embarking upon was so very urgent and so very dangerous.

He met Hermione and Ron outside and when he did not say anything, Snape took this as his cue to enter the office and shut the door behind him, pointedly.

"Alright mate?" asked Ron unsurely. "What did she say?"

"Nothing much," said Harry. "The portraits did most of the talking."

"Come on," said Hermione. "There's nothing else we can do and there's nothing to be gained from sitting on cold stone steps all night."

The trio stood and were about to move away when Harry stopped and bent to listen at the door, thinking perhaps something could be gained from the conversation currently taking place.

"… I had surmised as much," Snape was saying.

"Severus, what are we going to do, if you are called away at this stage…"

"If I am called then I will answer, Minerva, it is as simple as that. If I do not heed my summons then we are likely to find the Dark Lord's army, or at least part thereof, arriving at the castle gates to apprehend me. That is a risk to Hogwarts' safety that I am not willing to take."

"Severus, you will be killed."

The bleak finality of this statement made Harry's stomach turn and he did not want to hear any more of the discussion to which he had not been invited. He followed Ron and Hermione down the steps and towards Gryffindor tower once more, wondering what the future might hold now.


	54. The Best Kept Secrets

**Note:** It's Hallowe'en, and in honour of the occasion, have another chapter of C&I. But be warned: herein, everything begins to be revealed. Herein, everything starts to pander to the **complete** whimsy of Kimmeth's imagination...

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**Chapter Fifty-Four**

**The Best Kept Secrets**

The knock at the door sounded urgent, harried, and Minerva was immediately set on edge. She had been in a state of permanent nervous tension since four in the morning and was still expecting to hear that Severus had vanished to meet his doom at any moment, although nothing as yet had come to pass of Harry's nocturnal revelations. It was still early days yet, thought Minerva grimly, but this latest visitor might be a harbinger of doom.

"Come in," she called, head still bent over the paper to which she was giving her signature.

"MINERVA! WE KNOW WHAT THE KNITTING PATTERN IS!"

Minerva looked up in alarm to find Bathsheba standing in the doorway panting, her knitting needles gripped tightly in one hand and the parchment from which she had been working for almost a year in the other, the huge bag containing her project floating behind her. Her eyes were glistening with excitement and rejuvenation behind her spectacles, and Minerva was certain that she had never seen her older colleague look so ecstatic. Behind her, following at a more sedate pace but seeming no less enthusiastic, was Irma, clutching a sheaf of papers to her chest. Caught off guard, the headmistress could not think of how to reply to this sudden statement.

"What is it?" she asked faintly.

"You'll never believe it," said Bathsheba. "It's officially the most complicated piece of magic I've ever seen. The cable stitches alone were something else."

"Yes, but what is it?" Minerva pushed, her composure partly regained.

"It's part of Hogwarts," cut in Irma before Bathsheba could get carried away. "It's knitted into the magic of the building."

Of all the answers that Minerva might possibly have foreseen, including a pullover of doom, this was not one of them. She shook her head.

"I beg your pardon?"

"The… whatever it is," explained Irma impatiently, pointing to the bag full of knotted wool, "is woven into the magic of the school." She paused. "We were spending so much time trying to work out what it was that Bathsheba was making that we overlooked something very important – the identity of the author."

"Ethelburga's Eighth Untitled," murmured Minerva.

"Exactly," said Bathsheba. She seemed so excited that Minerva half-expected the ancient runes teacher to start bouncing up and down. "But who was the mysterious Ethelburga? Her name was Ethelburga _Hogwart_. She and her family built the castle."

"But the founders…" protested Minerva faintly, but Irma shook her head, rifling through her papers and sending a shower of parchment onto the floor. The headmistress looked around at her predecessors, all of whom were shaking their heads in as much dumbfounded wonderment as she was. She twisted to glance at Albus, whose expression was perfectly neutral and as such far too innocent. "Did you know about this?" she asked him plainly.

"I suspected that Ethelburga's Eighth Untitled might have something interesting to do with the school that could prove useful, but I swear that I was not aware of her identity, and I could not read enough of the runes to glean anything from them. I merely had to leave it to Bathsheba and hope she could find more than I could" said the former headmaster. Minerva was not entirely convinced, but at this point Irma found the sheet she was looking for and began explaining.

"The founders designed the castle and added in their own elements where they wanted them – we all know Slytherin's Chamber of Secrets, and Ravenclaw was responsible for the ever-changing layout, but the majority of the building work itself, and the magic that was imbued during that process, was done by the Hogwart family. Have you never wondered why the school is called Hogwarts and not named after the founders?"

Pieces began to fall into place in Minerva's mind.

"You did always say that it was the greatest mystery not covered in Hogwarts: A History," she said. "A history of everything except Hogwarts, in a manner. I'd always assumed it was a partial anagram." Minerva paused. "That's very interesting Bathsheba, Irma, but what exactly does your woollen masterpiece do?"

Bathsheba opened her mouth to explain, thought better of it, closed it again and stared pointedly at her workbag before finally speaking again.

"I think there's something you need to see first," she said. "There's only one part of this grand theory that we haven't managed to prove yet," she continued, "because we need the incumbent headteacher and we weren't about to try and hoodwink the castle." She paused, waiting for Minerva to make the next move.

"Well ladies," said the headmistress, "I place myself in your capable hands. Lead on."

Nothing was said as they left the office, but Irma could not hold her silence long in her excitement and soon began explaining how her research had been undertaken.

"The problem is that all the literature on the subject is completely scattered," she said eventually. "There are no solid accounts, and the majority of them are old unreliable witness reports of the knowledge itself being split up and hidden in its various component parts. The concept of divide and remain hidden is in theory a strong one, but if the knowledge is not passed on then it is possible for it to be too well hidden, and lost throughout the generations. I still don't know if I've found everything." She shuffled her papers absently as she walked. "The thing is, the information is there in the books that we stumble across every day, but because it's piecemeal and we're not looking for it, we tend to ignore it. The meaning doesn't register when we find the next piece of the puzzle however many months later in a different book."

Irma stopped in her tracks, causing the other two witches to do the same. They had reached the painting of the dancing trolls.

"We're here," said Bathsheba.

"The Room of Requirement?" asked Minerva incredulously.

"Yes and no," said Irma. "Yes, we will be entering what has come to be known as the Room of Requirement, but that wasn't its original intended function. When the room was first built and enchanted, there was a completely different purpose in mind. The enchantments of the Room of Requirement were put in place to hide this original room." She paused and indicated for Minerva to place her hand on the bare wall. "It will only respond to the inherent magic of the head of the school," she explained.

As Minerva placed her hand on the stone, as unusually warm to the touch as it was, things became clear, things that had been worrying at the back of her mind all year. She understood why Albus had left Bathsheba the knitting pattern, in case it was something to do with the school's magic. She understood why he had been so desperate for her to keep hold of her headship, and she was beginning to understand why the Ministry under Voldemort's rule was so determined to destroy the students' knowledge of history. Not only did Voldemort wish to protect his horcruxes; if he had found out about whatever mystery hid itself within Bathsheba's knitting then he would want to make sure that no-one else knew about it. Irma, however, had prevailed against the odds, and she was about to uncover Hogwarts' best-kept secret, a secret so indescribably powerful that whatever it was, it had remained hidden for over a thousand years.

She looked down at her hand on the wall to see the outline of a door handle slowly forming around it, the texture and colour of the stone changing until they were standing in front of a foreboding arched door. Minerva looked to Bathsheba, who gave her an encouraging nod, and she turned the handle, allowing the door to creep open in eerie silence.

The room that was revealed was unlike anything that Minerva had ever seen before, a cavernous chamber made of exquisitely carved marble that reflected like a mirror. One the four walls hung four enormous portraits framed in gilded wood and bedecked with rubies, sapphires, topaz, emeralds…

The four founders, whose portraits did not exist anywhere else within the castle, and whose likenesses Minerva had never seen in such startlingly large relief, looked down at the three women as they entered. Godric Gryffindor leaned on his sword, a hat barely recognisable as their sorter perched rakishly on his head. Rowena Ravenclaw wore no hat, but her ebony locks were crowned instead with the now infamous diadem. Helga Hufflepuff smiled down at them benevolently, fingers curled around an elegant goblet, the splinters of which Minerva had seen. Finally, round the neck of Salazar Slytherin hung the dread locket that had nearly claimed the life of her colleague.

"Good evening, Minerva," said Gryffindor, his voice from the frame booming around the chamber. "We've been expecting you for a while now."

Minerva was speechless.

"I never doubted you, Bathsheba." Hufflepuff addressed the alumna of her house. Bathsheba, as dumbstruck as Minerva, gave an awkward curtsey.

"Ethelburga was a truly extraordinary witch," Ravenclaw added. "We all hoped that it would never come to this; that this magic would never need to be awakened, but you have proven yourselves admirably and even in these desperate times, this should be acknowledged."

Finally, Minerva found her voice.

"Thank you," she managed. "This is a truly extraordinary room, but I don't know what we are supposed to be doing in it." She turned to Bathsheba. "How exactly does the knitting fit into this?" She could not believe that Bathsheba had spent since the end of July knitting in order to find this strange chamber and nothing else. The older witch nodded and took hold of her hovering workbag, emptying the contents out onto the glittering floor.

The finished product did not look all that different to the mess that it had appeared to be whilst it was being knitted, but as Bathsheba began to unwind it and lay it out around the room, Minerva saw the way in which the many coloured threads wove around each other, stopping, starting and making loops and knots, so interwoven and undulating that they were almost alive.

"The wool represents the school," she said eventually once the entire thing was unfolded in a circle around the three women. "Each colour corresponds to a different staff member or someone else important within the network; the ways they knot together represent the ways in which we interact." She ran her fingers over the runic pattern that she had been attached to for so long, and pointed out the gold thread that ran solidly through the centre of the work. "That represents the castle itself; a constant that can never be changed." Bathsheba indicated a dark maroon colour that ran up the edges, keeping it in shape and occasionally dipping in and out of the main work. "That's me, shaping the knitting."

It was so intricate and so detailed that there was little wonder that it had taken her so long. Now that she knew the secret behind it, Minerva could appreciate its beauty and delicacy, and she stared at the wool for a long time, gradually picking out her own and her colleagues' threads.

"What does it do?" she asked eventually, unsure of how much time she had spent mesmerised by the pattern and suddenly becoming acutely aware of the others in the room, both living and long-dead.

"Protection," said Slytherin, speaking for the first time since the three witches had entered the chamber. "The magic of the founders, the staff and the castle itself all combined into one."

"It's a very simple principle," said Ravenclaw. "United we stand, divided we fall. With all the magic here united, then the school will stand against allcomers."

"But…" Minerva looked up at Slytherin. Surely, since he had deserted, such a magic could not function.

"Yes, I know," snapped the portrait, shifting uncomfortably in his seat. "Believe me, there have been many occasions upon which I have considered deserting this position and letting my kinsman transform this school into the one I had envisaged, but times are ever-changing and so must our opinions change too. These protections were set in place before I parted ways with my colleagues and do function still. I had accepted…"

"Grudgingly," interrupted Gryffindor. Slytherin glared at him.

"I had accepted," he began again, "that the time might come when a great foe might strike the castle and we must unite against it, regardless of blood purity. Alas, it is against my kinsman that I must now unite, for the threat he poses to the wizarding world and the school is, admittedly, far greater than my original intentions."

Gryffindor opened his mouth to say something but Hufflepuff stopped him.

"And we're not getting into that argument again for the umpteenth time in however many hundred years," she said sternly, her eyes darting between Slytherin and Gryffindor. "Certainly not when we have company." She turned to the three witches in the centre of the room. "We must all unite against Voldemort."

Minerva felt a sudden need to sit down in order to digest the wave of information that had just been imparted to her, and Irma drew her up a misshapen chintz armchair that the headmistress sank into gratefully.

"Is that it?" she asked. "This simple train of wool will keep us safe from the evil forces on the outside?"

She turned to Bathsheba, who shrugged her shoulders.

"That's the only thing that Irma and I couldn't find out," she said. "The magic is there, but we don't know fully how it works."

Minerva looked around at the founders for help.

"It is not so simple," said Gryffindor. "Nothing in Hogwarts ever is. Not only must the pattern be complete, all those it represents must be present as well. We are here, and always will be." He indicated himself and his colleagues. "The castle will naturally be here, represented by the room in which we stand. "In order for this base protection to be set into motion, the rest of the staff must be present. Once the magic is in place, the castle will sustain it for as long as necessary."

"But be warned," added Ravenclaw. "The magic does not distinguish between good and evil intentions. It will defend the castle. No-one will be able to get in, be they friend or foe."

"It is for this reason that we advise you to only begin at the last possible moment," Hufflepuff continued. "This protection was only ever intended as a last resort. It is a mark of how dire the circumstances are that it has come to pass at this moment in time."

Minerva could only nod, still dumbfounded, still unable to believe that something so immense and so powerful could have been hidden in plain sight for so long. This incredible power had been placed in her hands, and it was her judgement that would see it used, for better or for worse. The responsibility weighed heavy on her shoulders; she could almost feel it physically. There could now be no denying it. The process that had begun with the lockdown of the school was reaching its completion. Hogwarts, the last bastion standing against Voldemort, was becoming the new front line…

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**Note2: **Before I am met with a chorus of 'deus ex machina!' I would like to say a few words. Namely, keep reading! It isn't all rainbows and roses yet; after all, only three people know about this terrific knitted protection at the moment… Hopefully the reasoning behind this new development was explained in the chapter itself. I have always thought that more should have been made of the castle's inherent magic and of the legacy that the founders left behind, so there it is. And I am really intrigued as to why the building was called Hogwarts, of all things. I've never been able to find anything concrete on that score.

**Note3: **And if you're that interested, feel free to go back through the chapters involving Bathsheba and her knitting and match the threads and the actions performed with them to the staff members. Honest to goodness, none of it was random. This little beauty's been in the planning for a long while now.


	55. Save the Last Dance

**Serious Note Before We Begin This Update:**

Firstly, C&I is undergoing its umpteenth plot overhaul. Which is why this update is so delayed, and why updates are going to be erratic from now on, mainly because I have to be very careful that anything I overhaul now does not negate everything that's already come. However, I do have a new deadline – 1st March – which gives me over three months to get it done in.

Most importantly, although I said 'keep reading' at the end of the last chapter, you are of course not obligated to do so should you think I've pushed the boundaries of reason, logic, dei ex machina or just plain sanity to the point of no return. However, I will say that it is rare for me to introduce something and leave it hanging – generally (although admittedly not always) there is relatively solid theory behind everything waiting to be explained, but I tend to work on an 'action first, explain everything later' principle. Anyway, enough of that, onwards to the update! And since I'm in a good mood having discovered the joys of folk dance, have two chapters!

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**Note: **I may as well say it now: this chapter in particular is an indulgence to me as a writer and a die-hard Icicle 'shipper. Having put him through so much, I wanted to write the slightly suaver Lucius I know and love. Allow me my little moment; we'll be back to normal (whatever normal is…) very soon.

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**Chapter Fifty-Five**

**Save the Last Dance**

Narcissa stood at the window of the master bedroom, her forehead pressed against the glass as she looked out over a grey and uninspiring sunset. It reflected her life perfectly. She was at a complete standstill and her world was bleak and colourless. Everything seemed to be slipping away from her, lost to the shady dealings and incomprehensible moral maze of warfare. Whatever happened though, whichever side one fought on, there were some things that no-one could consider just. The slaughter of Finn and Mareike Rowle was one of them. Oh yes, Narcissa thought to herself bitterly, there were those who had fought against him who would say, callously, that Rowle, as a marked Death Eater, deserved his fate, but what did they know of the man who had died that night? And what of Mareike? Was she guilty by association to the extent where her murder was also justifiable? And Susie…

Narcissa shook her head. She could only hope that Susie was safe with Camilla, wherever the pair of them were. She had not received any news from her older friend since her last disappearance into the chimney with Daniel hot on her trail. A tiny part of Narcissa was optimistic, hoping that Camilla's maternal influence over Daniel would come to the fore and that she would be safe, and that little Susie would grow up loved and unharmed in the absence of her adoring parents. Narcissa did not want to even think of any other option, and she concentrated on focussing all her energies towards hoping that all was well, however much she knew, deep in her heart, that this would not be the case.

So much injustice, but where could she turn to in her sadness? Since July, Narcissa had led the family through their many, many trials; the person supporting the entire infrastructure could not afford to break. There was far too much at stake for her to give in to her misery, but she was fast running out of energy with which to keep up her mask. Her make-up was rapidly flaking but the show had to go on. Narcissa was glad of moments like these, when she was alone and unobserved, and for a few moments she could stop fighting her grief and unhappiness. Finn's death still haunted her in idle moments, his final strained words suddenly filling silences, and she would wake in the middle of night with a start, still able to feel his blood smearing her hands. She felt as if she was a murderer pursued, and although she had committed no crime, the guilt still gnawed at her. If she had only been quicker off the mark, if she had only understood the warning signs sooner.

Narcissa gave a snort of cynical laughter. If she had been there quicker, then she would probably be counted amongst the dead, struck down by her sadistic sister. Narcissa couldn't think anymore. She suddenly felt the weight of the year's events pressing down on her with unbearable pressure, and in that moment all she could do was scream, a long, loud angry scream that only stopped when she paused for breath, panting. She drew in air for the second round, but before she could let rip, she felt a familiar warm hand between her shoulder blades, and like a soap bubble disturbed by the gentlest of touches, she crumpled into her woe, unable to support herself any longer. She had done a lot of screaming recently, but she cried relatively seldom. This was one of those rare occasions. Lucius caught her as she stumbled and they ended up sitting on the floor beneath the window, Lucius's robes soaking up Narcissa's utter misery.

At length, she simply ran out of tears and lapsed into silence. Lucius shifted his hold on her and pulled her closer into his side.

"I've missed you," he murmured to her hair. Narcissa nodded her agreement, finally feeling safely enveloped from all the many evils of the world in her husband's arms once more. As time, stress, sleeping potions and pain had taken precedence, the level of intimacy in their marriage had dwindled to the occasional chaste kiss snatched when they could be guaranteed to be without a sneering audience. "Whatever happened to the halcyon days? When we could dance the Viennese around the drawing room in our dressing gowns if we so wished."

Narcissa could not help but give a slightly snuffly laugh.

"As far as I can remember we have never danced the Viennese around the drawing room, or indeed any other room, in our dressing gowns."

Without a word, Lucius got to his feet and wandered across to the wardrobe and Narcissa shook her head in despair at his intentions, rising from her place under the windowsill as he returned, holding out her dressing gown and wearing his own over his shirtsleeves.

"There's no time like the present," he said. "It would of course be better in the drawing room, but it seems a shame not to be able to say we've done it at least once."

Narcissa smiled, pulling on the white silk and waving her wand at the floor below them before taking Lucius's offered hand. The first tinkling notes of a familiar Viennese waltz floated up to them from the piano on the ground floor, and before long they were whirling around the room, newly-weds once more, nothing in the world to care about except each other, and preferably not crashing into the furniture. Eventually the music slowed and their pace dropped with it, but as the next tune began, they did not start again, staying motionless, looking at each other.

It would have been enough, thought Narcissa. If they had simply remained standing in the centre of the room, staring into each other's eyes, neither willing to be the first to look away and break the magic of the moment, then it would have been enough for her. But as soon as Lucius kissed her, a powerful kiss that threw off all the caution that they had been wearing for so many months, a kiss filled with frustration, need, overpowering want… The fire that she had kept so tightly suppressed roared into life again and she responded to the kiss with a tenfold passion of her own. Lucius staggered slightly under the forcefulness of her ministrations but caught himself and let go their ballroom hold to take her in his arms properly, crushing her with the same desperation as he had done on his return from Azkaban and the same longing that she felt herself. It was then that she knew that to end it there would never be enough. An irrepressible hunger had been re-awakened after lying dormant and she would not rest until it was sated, the consequences be damned. Scrabbling for her wand where she had left it on the windowsill, Narcissa managed to break away long enough to lock the bedroom door before refocusing her attention on the matter at hand, ignoring the world outside, ignoring the bleak state of her existence that she had been lamenting so shortly before. As she succeeded in sending him backwards onto the bed this time, they kissed with the urgency of new lovers and the ease and familiarity of long-established ones. Far below them, out of sight and out of mind, the piano continued to play.

X

Narcissa was not asleep, and she knew that Lucius was also aware of this, but she knew that unless she kept up the pretence then there would be no way she'd let him get out of bed and go to meet whatever fate awaited him that night, and everything would be for nothing. She felt him shift, sigh, and finally let go of her.

"Ciss…"

She did not reply and she knew that Lucius had not expected her to. He sighed again and she felt a rush of cold air fill the void where his body had been as he got out of bed. Finally trusting herself not to do anything rash, Narcissa half-opened her eyes and watched him dress, the black robes so familiar and so alien at the same time.

"Cissa…"

"Yes?"

He paused, fiddling with one cuff, and gave a hollow laugh.

"I'm scared."

That was definitely true. It was rare enough for him to admit fear; it was rarer still for him to call her Cissa. Their private pet name only ever came out in the most desperate of times.

"We're doing the right thing," she replied, although her throat constricted around the words, unwilling to let them out, and immediately she regretted the plural. She was not doing anything other than lying there being completely hypocritical, urging him onwards when all she wanted to do was grab him and hold him back from fate.

Lucius nodded slowly and sat down on the end of the bed, easing his wedding band over his knuckle. It had always been a tight fit, metal moulding to the long-term wearer just as anything else did, but up until last year this had made little difference. Then came Azkaban, and Narcissa could still remember the horrible jolt that she had received in the pit of her stomach when she had opened the battered brown paper parcel that had been sent from the dread island to see a mocking twinkle of broken gold nestled in the midst of her husband's effects. Broken gold, snapped by the wand of an impatient administrator. Magic could repair everything, but since his return to civilisation, Lucius had made a point of removing his wedding ring before going out to do the Dark Lord's bidding for fear of a repeat performance, although why they did not know, since Azkaban was theirs and he would not be going for an extended stay any time soon. As much as she accepted his decision, however, Narcissa couldn't say that she liked it. To her, the nigh-on immovable ring had always represented a reminder to Lucius to come home in one piece. It hadn't worked, of course, and the psychology should have been broken with that, but the association was still there.

Tonight, however, its removal was a necessary evil. At length, he gave up and held his hand out to Narcissa, who tapped the ring with her wand. It slid off into her palm and she stared at it, twisting it between her fingertips as she had done so often the previous summer when he had left it with her for safekeeping. That was before he had surrendered his wand, of course. Since that day (Narcissa could still remember it as if it were mere hours ago; every detail was clear in her mind down to the colour of the stockings she'd been wearing), their lives had become material for barter, constantly traded between Draco and the Dark Lord. However they looked at it though, there was to have been no way to avoid the situation. Whoever had lost, whatever had happened, they would still be living on the brink, dispensable. The Dark Lord had made that much clear when he had come to her after the Department of Mysteries debacle and said, in cold, amused tones to a woman still surrounded by Azkaban brown paper, that in the incapacitation of her husband, he would be requiring her son. Draco had taken his father's place long before Lucius was ostracised from the ranks; it would only ever have been a matter of time. Was there any way in which this horrible inevitability that they now faced could have been avoided? Not really, thought Narcissa grimly, and she knew that no matter what, no matter how much she regretted, had she had the choice she would probably have done it all again, simply out of not knowing how to make it different.

Lucius went momentarily rigid, the fingers of his left hand clenching involuntarily.

"It's time," he said. "The point of no return."

They both knew that so much hinged on whether or not he walked out of the door; something far bigger and more important than both of them. Neither of them moved for a moment that seemed to span an age. Narcissa bit her tongue to prevent her from saying anything.

Finally Lucius stood, walked calmly round the bed and kissed her briefly on the lips.

"I'll see you later."

Narcissa nodded; she still did not trust herself to speak and she knew that her husband understood. _I'll see you later. _It was a definitive statement; a fact. The only thing left in any doubt was quite how much later they would meet again.

"I love you."

She allowed her mouth off the leash long enough to reply.

"I love you too."

Lucius kissed her again, lingering a little this time, but all too soon he was gone, through the door: choice made, path taken, events set in stone. Narcissa sighed and got out of bed, knowing that the longer she stayed staring at the door, the more tempted she would be to follow him through it. She padded through to the bathroom and began to run water into the tub; she had no intention of taking a bath but the noise blocked out all other sounds and, conversely, all silence, silence in which her thoughts were far too free to wander. She ran a finger along the shelf above the sink, counting out empty potion vials that had accumulated there during the past month, all brews of varying strength, efficacy and experimentation prescribed alternately by Severus and Camilla and all ultimately useless.

Thinking of Camilla inevitably brought her mind back full circle. She hoped that her words to Finn before his death had not been a lie; that Susie was safe wherever she was. Narcissa looked into the mirror and sighed at the tear tracks down her cheeks; she had not even realised she had begun to weep again. She dried her eyes on a towel and took a deep breath. There was no use in standing in the middle of her bathroom contemplating. The future had been laid in motion, and she had her own contribution to prepare. She went over to a cabinet mounted high on the wall and locked by magic; a relic from the days when everything had to be kept from a child's wandering and inquisitive fingers. Narcissa opened the door and found what she was searching for with a simple summoning charm. It was time…

* * *

**Note2:** In case anyone was wondering, I do actually dance ballroom myself, I haven't picked all this up just from too much Strictly Come Dancing… Also, bonus points to those who found the Moulin Rouge reference. (I swear I don't put these things in deliberately, they just happen as I'm writing!) Onwards!


	56. A Very Quiet Coup

**Note: **Part two! Normally I make a point of not changing the narrator halfway through a chapter – I think I've managed to be pretty consistent up until this point. For the next few chapters, however, things are going to get a bit hectic and (hopefully) exciting, with lots happening simultaneously, so I'll be changing narrators frequently to show all the action.

**Note2:** I should also point out that a lot of this chapter was written just after I'd attended my first folk festival and was plagued with the image of Voldemort and Harry galloping down the line at a ceilidh, and what wasn't written then was written whilst watching Children in Need 2011 or at half past midnight the day after CiN when I was completely crackered… I hereby blame those things for everything that is skewed in this chapter.

* * *

**Chapter Fifty-Six**

**A Very Quiet Coup**

Ducking into a dark corner, Tonks changed her appearance again. That was the beauty of metamorphmagi; you always had an infinite number of disguises available to you if you felt that the one you were wearing was attracting too much attention from the people whose attention you definitely did not want to attract.

This, she thought, stepping into the main corridor of the Department of Magical Transportation, was what she had signed onto the Auror Training Programme to do. Well, not infiltrating her employers per se, but the thrill of properly working in her chosen calling once more after so many months of paperwork and then inertia cancelled out any fear she might have held at the danger of their mission. This was it. This was the big one. Do or die. Kill or be killed. If the Order failed in this, their last stand, then it might as well be over.

It was early evening; the Ministry was quieter than it would be in the middle of the day but still not deserted; those witches and wizards putting in overtime would still be around for another couple of hours yet. Most importantly, though, the Minister would still be there, and at this time of day his numerous protection detail would hopefully be slightly relaxed. It was a simple enough plan that the Order had devised between them. Sneak into the Ministry and break the curse on Thicknesse, dealing with anyone who got in their way. They would thus free the institution from You-Know-Who's grip and grant it autonomy once more. They were willing the surprise nature of their attack to buy them some time since they were already hopelessly outnumbered without the addition of the Death Eaters and their goons. Every Order member who could be spared had been drafted in to take part in their daring raid, even those who would not normally fight on the frontline, and it was Tonks' job to make sure that they all got into the building. At that moment, she was on her way to do just that by meeting up with Seymour Tibbs, a nondescript member of the Floo Office who had been keeping the Order's channels of fireside communication open and unmonitored since the Ministry fell. Today, however, he was going to have to get them physically through the grates, not merely ensure that they could speak through them. Tonks had come in person to oversee the proceedings; they had not wanted any message to Seymour regarding the Order's current position to be tragically intercepted. At length, Tonks reached the Floo Office and entered.

The room was small and largely empty of furniture except the standard chairs and desks of the workers; the dominant spectacle was by far and away the massive fireplace on the wall opposite the door. It could have easily fitted seven people side by side standing in it, and it was from here that the entire country's magical grates were monitored, from here that a fireplace could be sealed or opened as necessary. Returning her hair to a shade Seymour would recognise, Tonks looked around the room for him but there was no-one to be seen.

"Seymour?" she hissed. "Seymour, where are you?"

"I'm afraid you've just missed Mr Tibbs."

Tonks whirled round to find the owner of the unpleasant voice. Three members of the Minister's upper echelons had entered the office behind her. Two faces were unfamiliar but at the third, Tonks had to stop herself doing a double-take and exclaiming in disbelief.

Percy Weasley's eyes flickered unsurely between Tonks and his superiors.

"I wasn't aware that you had returned to work after your extended absence, Auror Tonks," the wizard who had spoken before said lightly. "But as I said, Mr Tibbs has just left. We needed to speak to him about an urgent matter, you see. Someone was worried about his professional conduct and his service to the Ministry. There have been rumours that he has been lax in his duties, letting grates go unattended at rather convenient times for certain dangerous organisations whose designs upon our noble Minister should be monitored at all costs."

The Order, in other words, thought Tonks. Whoever the leader of this trio was, he was evidently newly promoted and enjoying being able to gloat as he continued to drone on about Seymour, whom Tonks had no doubt was now either dead or as good as. Out of the corner of her eye, she saw Percy fiddling with his wand. If ever a young man had had a moment of truth, then this was Percy's. Finally, Tonks caught his eye and raised her own wand a fraction. It was all the impetus that the younger wizard needed.

The two stunned Ministerial wizards fell daintily into a heap on top of each other and Tonks bound them before Percy squeezed them under one of the desks. The goons taken care of, Tonks and Percy finally had the chance to appraise each other properly. The black sheep of the Weasleys was looking rather pink and, indeed, sheepish.

"I know it's too little, too late," he said, pushing his spectacles further up his nose, "but after I heard about what happened to Seymour and what he'd been doing I thought that this was probably my last chance to fight the good fight and…"

Tonks held up a hand to stop him mid-sentence.

"Right now, Percy, we need all the help we can get. Welcome to the fold." She turned to the gargantuan fireplace. "Now, have you got any idea how this behemoth works?"

X

Arthur was not usually a man for pacing, but pacing he was, to the extent where Hestia and Kingsley had threatened him with locomoter mortis twice if he didn't stop making them dizzy with his constant movement. He couldn't really be blamed for his nerves, thought Arthur defensively, since this was ostensibly the most dangerous thing they had ever done: not due to their destination or the feats they hoped to achieve there but merely due to numbers. The Ministry employed hundreds and could call upon many more allies. The Order had been lucky to scrape together the ten people that now stood in Ted and Andromeda's living room, waiting for Tonks and Seymour's signal.

"Arthur," warned Hestia again. Arthur stopped pacing with a sigh and joined his colleagues in their semi-circle around the grate, watching its emptiness for the slightest signs of life.

"Let's face it," said Mundungus after a few more silent minutes. "She's not coming. I may as well be…"

"Mundungus!" said Remus sharply. "You are not going anywhere. We're going to need all the help we can get for this one."

Obviously reluctantly, Mundungus remained where he was. Arthur couldn't blame him completely; his own feet were feeling distinctly chilly at the prospect. Before anyone else could have second thoughts, however, a flash of green bowled into the fireplace and Tonks' face appeared there.

"We're on," she said. "Sorry it took longer than expected, there was more than one setback."

The remaining Order members exchanged worried glances. 'More than one setback' was not a promising start to their mission.

"But we're back on track now," she said. "I've acquired a new ally, but we're going to have to get a move on. The connection's secure, come through."

Now or never, thought Arthur as Tonks' face disappeared and merely left the green gateway to the Ministry, to change. Andromeda and Ted stepped forward, ready to do their part, willing to follow their daughter to the end if that was what it took to turn their world around. They grasped their hands together tightly and dashed into the flames with a slight runup, Andromeda going into the grate first and pulling Ted after her. Their decisiveness spurred on the others and soon Arthur and Bill were the only ones left in the living room.

"After you, Dad."

Arthur nodded and took a deep breath before stepping into the green fire and hurtling through chimneys towards London and their fate. All too soon, he found himself in the Floo Network office with the others who had gone before him, Tonks, and…

"Percy?"

Bill stepped out of the immense grate beside him, the incredulity of finding the brother he had presumed lost to the Ministry for so long standing in their midst. Arthur himself was still speechless, but glad, glad to see that Percy was there to fight alongside them, but above all glad to see that his son was alright.

"I'm sorry, I've been an idiot," Percy began, but before he could elaborate any further, he was cut off by his eldest brother and father throwing their arms around him.

"Glad to have you back," said Bill.

The moment of reunion was cut short by Mundungus's voice.

"There's some dead blokes under here!" he exclaimed.

"Mundungus, I can't believe you're sniffing around for things to nick at now of all times! They aren't dead, they're stunned," said Tonks, "and it's thanks to them that we need to get a move on. They got Seymour," she explained to Arthur and Remus in an undertone. "We don't have quite as much of an element of surprise as we might have done but at the moment we've still got the upper hand. We should stick to the original plan,"

Arthur, Remus and Bill nodded their agreement. It was a simple enough plan – they were going to go straight to the Minister's office and attempt to get him back from wherever it was that his mind was being held prisoner under the complex imperius curse. Tonks was the first to leave the Floo Office, peering out into the corridor and assuring the others that all was clear before leaving the room completely and disappearing off into the direction of the lifts; Remus, Dedalus, Elphias and her parents followed her. Any reserves that the Ministry called in at a later stage would apparate into the Atrium as a central point and it made sense to have a little welcoming committee ready to spring out at them should this occur. As the lift returned empty, the others left the office and made their way down the corridor towards their destiny. Mundungus was with them in case his less than legal talents needed to be put to good use once they reached the Minister's cocoon. None of the Order had thought it unlikely for Thicknesse to have more advanced security than that which a simple alohomora could bypass, and Mundungus had a particular aptitude when it came to magical locks with suitable prizes on the other side of them.

As they got into the lift that would take them up to the top floor and the Ministerial offices, Arthur cast a glance sideways at his third-born son, still deep in conversation with Bill about the finer details of the plan that he had been so hurriedly brought in on. Percy had slid into Seymour's role with visible trepidation but no less visible determination, and right now, Arthur was too relieved at his being safe beside him once more to chastise his having been led astray by the Ministry machine in the first place. That said, it was undeniable that an insider at the Ministry was a necessary asset if their scheme was to go ahead, especially since the Order had, bit by bit, been coerced into giving up its positions therein. If there was anything unexpected that they ought to have been wary of, hopefully Percy would be able to enlighten them.

The lift shot past the Department of Magical Law Enforcement where Kingsley's fellow Aurors still worked under the misguided leadership of Dawlish, and Arthur let out the breath that he didn't know he had been holding. If they were going to encounter any further mishaps at this early stage of the proceedings then he had expected it to be at this level; indeed he had entertained horrific visions of their lift being stormed by the entire Auror Office in something akin to one of those muggle SAS raids which looked both exciting and terrifying in equal measure.

Thankfully the lift did not stop until it reached the top floor, the administrative centre of the wizarding world. Arthur had never had much occasion to visit these parts during the premiership of Fudge, Scrimgeour and their predessesors, but he could not deny that it had changed visibly since Thicknesse's initiation. Dark, impersonal and cold, it was as if the evil that had left its mark on the rest of the institution had impregnated itself into the very fabric of the building here, ostensibly its source. Arthur gave an involuntary shiver.

"Well, here goes nothing," said Bill, breaking the silence that had gradually fallen over them during the journey from the lower department. They set off towards their goal at the end of the corridor.

X

It was not the most conventional way of trying for promotion, thought Percy as they moved along the corridor: breaking into the Minister's office and attempting to break a curse that he didn't even know he was under. But despite the fact that he was almost certainly heading towards unemployment with all guns blazing, Percy would not have chosen differently given a second chance. He had made many foolish decisions in the past few years but he was certain that helping the Order now was not one of them. Whilst he and Seymour had not been the best of friends, they had got on well enough and exchanged pleasantries in the corridors. When Percy had heard that he'd been killed whilst resisting arrest for 'aiding and abetting a dangerous resistance force' it had knocked him for six. Until now, Percy had turned a blind eye to the murky goings on that always seemed to be happening very far away, as if he was viewing them through a haze of misinformation that had misted up his glasses. Now, however, his vision was crystal clear and events were very close to home. Percy cringed to think of how he had let himself be deceived, had let himself follow like a sheep. Hopefully it was not too late for him to help now.

It was only as they were almost at the Minister's office itself that Percy realised that it was far too quiet in the corridor. The security was lessened in the evenings but it was never this lax. He had warned the others as much, that they should anticipate their presence being challenged at least once before they reached Thicknesse. He turned and sure enough, he saw Yaxley and the Carrows standing behind them, wands outstretched.

"You've decided to return then, Weasley… most junior," said Yaxley to Percy after casting brief glances at Bill and their father. "Your superior was on the verge of sending out a search party for you. Dare I hope to assume that you are merely escorting these wanted criminals to the Minister for his immediate judgement or should I take a more realist approach?"

Percy responded with a curse and the others followed his lead. They outnumbered the three Death Eaters two to one and would have subdued them easily had their foes not retreated rapidly to the lift after only a few exchanged spells.

"They'll be alerting the rest of the Ministry and getting reinforcements now," said Kingsley. "Let's hope that we can do what we came for before they arrive."

"Let's hope that the others found fortuitous hiding places in the Atrium," said Hestia. She cast a glance over her shoulder to where Mundungus was tapping around the lock of the Minister's office with his wand, working out which spells he should use to get in. "I think we should split up," she continued, "and try and stop anyone who's coming. There's still time to intercept them, and we can't really be of use to Bill once he gets to the actual curse-breaking part."

The others nodded their agreement and set off in pursuit of the Death Eaters.

"Wait, Perce, I'll need your help," said Bill, calling his brother back. "If I do manage to break the curse on Thicknesse then he'll probably appreciate a slightly more familiar face telling him what the blazes is going on."

Percy nodded.

"I can get you past his secretary without you having to attack her as well," he said.

"We're in," said Mundungus from the door, which had clicked unlocked so quietly and delicately that Percy had not noticed it – and he doubted that the office's occupiers would have noticed it as well. "And I'm off. You're on your own in there, mate."

"Thanks, Mundungus." Bill turned to Percy. "You ready, little brother?"

Percy opened the door and the two Weasleys entered the heart of the magical government…


	57. A Far Better Thing

**Disclaimer: **The last line is a direct quote from Dickens.

**Note:** Argh! Once again a very long time passes between updates. What's new? Anyway, I hope you enjoy today's chapters.

* * *

**Chapter Fifty-Seven**

**A Far Better Thing**

Severus didn't know what to think as he felt the momentary burn of the mark summoning him to the Dark Lord's side. If he was going to be brutally honest with himself (and if you weren't honest with yourself at the very end then when could you be?) then he was scared, more scared than he had ever been in his life. Oh yes, he accepted that death was always going to be a virtual inevitability, but now that the moment had arrived, he would admit to feeling trepidation at what was to come. Severus had often wondered about how his time in the Dark Lord's employ would end; quickly and painlessly or with him begging on his knees for death. Severus gave a grim smile. It was not in the Dark Lord's nature to be merciful, and Severus himself was far too proud to beg.

There was no use in putting it off; that would surely make matters far worse, Severus thought as he walked through the head's office towards the only unblocked fireplace in the building. Trying to get through the barricaded doors would have taken too much time and engendered too much attention. All he needed to do was get outside the boundaries and then he would apparate. He knew how to bypass the warding spells that Minerva would have put in place to guard her grate; the journey would still take but a matter of moments.

Minerva's office was empty, of course it was: she was on her way to the urgent staff meeting that she had called – in the Room of Requirement of all places – and that he was meant to be part of. As he located the store of Floo powder, Severus thought he could hear running footsteps getting closer and closer, and as he stepped into the fireplace, he could divine that they were coming up the stairs and that they were Minerva's.

"No, Severus, there…"

But the rest of the message was lost to the roar of the green flames, and Severus knew that there was no going back now. He barely saw his receiving fireplace before he disapparated away to the Manor. On arriving at the destination, having made his way into the foreboding and seemingly empty house, he felt two pairs of strong hands take an arm each, swing him around and bundle him through a door into complete darkness. Completely disorientated, he looked around blindly, trying to gather his bearings. Where was he? In the cellar? Who had grabbed him? He opened his mouth to say something, although he was not at that moment completely sure what would be appropriate, when the owner of one of the pairs of hands clapped one over his mouth.

"Ssh!"

Someone cast the spell for light and a dim glow illuminated Walden's face. The unknown hands let him go and Severus turned round to see Lucius standing behind him.

"We don't have much time," whispered Walden. "Come on."

His colleague led the way further into the small chamber, which Severus was still having trouble identifying.

"Is this a _broom cupboard_?" he hissed.

"Don't be ridiculous," said Lucius. "This is not a broom cupboard."

Severus raised an eyebrow on seeing a mop propped against one wall but said nothing.

"This is the magical core of the house," said Lucius. They appeared to have come as far as they could go by this point and Walden waved his wand to ignite the candles dotted around on the various shelves. The gloom slightly lightened, Severus saw mismatched furniture stacked up in a space far too small for it, and a half-bottle of whiskey standing on one side. It was evident that Lucius and Walden had hidden in here before.

"We thought you could use a last snifter," said Walden drily as Lucius poured.

"But the Dark Lord," Severus began, trying not to let his confusion show.

"He can wait," said Walden. "I don't speak for my colleague, but I for one am now past the point of caring."

"I've been past the point of caring for a long time now," affirmed Lucius. He handed Severus a glass. "To the future, safe in the knowledge that we don't have much of it left."

Severus only recognised the potion when the metallic aftertaste came through the burn of the whiskey at the back of his throat. He looked at his comrades.

"Lucius, Walden, what have you done?" he asked.

"Don't blame me, it was his idea," said Walden, pointing to Lucius. "I'm just aiding in the execution."

"We're saving your skin," said Lucius wryly. "You can thank me later."

"But…" Severus began, fighting the effects of the potion.

"I've borrowed too much time already," said Lucius, "and you of all people know it more than most. I think that, given its rapidly oncoming inevitability, I would like to meet my demise on my own terms, and these are my terms. Call it my compensation to you for the last two years of keeping me, Ciss and Draco alive." He paused. "It's a far better thing I do now than I have ever done. Or something along those lines."

"Lucius, you do realise that sentence is regarded by muggles, however misguidedly, as having been written by one of their greatest authors of all time?"

"Oh, the depths I have sunk to. I must be going mad. Quickly, Walden, we'd best get on with things before I come to my senses."

Severus could neither fight his impending unconsciousness nor do anything to prevent what was coming next. Walden gently levered his frame into the nearest of the clashing chairs and, not quite as gently, pulled a few strands of hair from his scalp. As his eyes closed, he could just make out a bottle of an infamously familiar silvery potion being produced from one of Walden's many pockets.

X

When Severus woke once more, it took him a little while to remember exactly what had happened thanks to the potion. As the grogginess reduced and his head cleared again, the events of the evening became vivid in his mind and he sat straight upright in the chair where he had been slumped. Of all the idiotic things to do, of all the moments to discover Dickens…

Severus moved towards the door of the cupboard-cum-room and tried to gauge how long he had been unconscious. Perhaps there was still time to change the outcome of the situation, but Severus didn't have the faintest hint of a plan in his head. Knowing Lucius's penchant for excess, however, his friend had probably given him enough to knock him out for far longer than necessary. Severus shook his head to rid himself of the last dregs of lethargy and closed his fingers around the door handle, pausing to gather his courage before he opened it. Before fate had taken a sudden, swerving detour from the course that he had predetermined for himself, Severus had been scared, yes, but he had known that the end was coming and he'd accepted it. Now though, he had absolutely no idea what awaited him on the other side of the door. Would he merely be stepping as a ghost into an empty house, or would he simply meet his doom later than he had anticipated, Lucius's sacrifice having been in vain? There was nothing to be gained from standing in the dark like a coward, he told himself, and he opened the door.

The hallway was silent and empty, the darkness all-encompassing and broken only by the flickering light coming from under the drawing room door. Severus moved through the shadows, reaching for his wand. He couldn't hear anything through the heavy wood, and he pushed it open a fraction.

Severus was quite certain that he had never seen so much blood in all his time with the Dark Lord; he had evidently used a method other than the killing curse and Severus's mind alighted on Nagini's ruthless fangs and the potent venom that refused to allow the wounds she caused to close. The dark stain spread over the rug and floorboards, and in the middle of it all was Narcissa. She was curled up in one of the armchairs, its back mostly hiding her from Severus's view.

"You should get back to the school," she said, without turning to look at him. Her voice sounded dull, dead, but as if there was more to be said. After a moment's silence she spoke again. "Have you any idea how hard it was to let him go? To stand back and let him come in here to meet his death in your place?" She glanced at him briefly before returning her gaze to the middle distance; her eyes were dry but scarlet and swollen.

"The time came where I couldn't cry anymore," she said flatly. "There wasn't any point to it. Tears won't bring him back."

Severus let the door swing open fully and took a step forward, unsure of what to say. He felt honour-bound to offer the new widow some sort of consolation, but he was horribly aware of intruding upon a private grief. His eyes alighted on the wineglasses on the mantelpiece, one drained and the other untouched.

"They toasted their victory over you," Narcissa explained, having obviously followed his eyeline. "Bellatrix and _him_. Drinking over my husband's dead body. You should get back to the school," she repeated. "They left about five minutes ago to meet the others at the gates, but there's unease in the ranks and no set plan of attack at the moment, so that should buy you some time before battle begins. It goes without saying that you should take the Floo rather than apparate."

"Narcissa, I…"

"I don't blame you, Severus," interrupted Narcissa, "just promise me that it will not all be in vain. You have got to defend the school. You have got to win this interminable war. Don't let this come to nothing."

"I promise, Narcissa. And… thank you."

She didn't reply, hugging her knees closer into her chest and resting her head on them. Severus was on the point of leaving the room and leaving Narcissa to mourn in peace when she spoke once more.

"Look out for Draco if you can. Please."

"Of course."

There was nothing more to be said, not in that moment, although they would without doubt revisit this point in the future and discuss it when the emotions were not so raw. Provided, of course, that there was a future in which to return to the past once this night, a night in which everything seemed to be happening at once with alarming speed and unpredictability, was over. Severus made his way briskly to the sitting room on the floor above, going through the preliminaries of Floo travel automatically, his mind far from his task.

"Hogwarts castle, head's office," he said as he stepped into the green flames. As he hurtled through the fireplace network towards his destination, he thought of the momentous and unknown task that Narcissa had laid at his feet. Win the war. Don't let everything go to waste. In effect, he was being instructed to survive, and having been given this unexpected second chance at life, that was exactly what Severus planned on doing.

Minerva's office was deserted, even more so than usual since some of the portraits seemed to have abandoned their frames. It was a mark of the castle's desperate times when even the portraits were choosing to flee. One obvious figure remained, however, the one mounted behind the desk.

"Severus, you have no idea how glad we all are to see you alive," said Dumbledore. "The time is almost upon us, but all is not lost. You need to go to the Room of Requirement; there's not a moment to lose."

"Professor, what is going on?" he asked, and at last, after everything that had happened in the between time, Severus could hear clearly in his head the words that Minerva had spoken before he had vanished from earshot into the fireplace.

_No, Severus, there is another way._

"We are defending Hogwarts," said Dumbledore, rising from his seat and moving through the picture frames towards the door and indicating for Severus to follow him. "I shall explain on the way."

As they hurried towards the Room of Requirement with Dumbledore's disjointed explanation catching Severus's ears in short bursts as he passed between frames, the former potions master was becoming ever more incredulous. But knitting patterns aside, the idea of a final defence of Hogwarts stirred something in his chest.

"Alas, I can go no further," said Dumbledore as they reached the picture of the dancing trolls; the older man seemed winded from their brisk pace through the castle despite his form being but paint and magic. "Good luck, Severus, and good luck to the rest of the school."

Severus opened the door to the Room of Requirement. The Dark Lord was baying for blood at the gates but they would ensure that he would not receive it. They would defend the school. They would win the war. Severus would not let the sacrifice that had been made for him come to nothing.

_It is a far, far better thing that I do, than I have ever done._

* * *

**Note2:** In case you hadn't already guessed from the quotage and my obsession with cryptic knitting patterns, I love 'A Tale of Two Cities'. It's the only full-length Dickens work I've read and I wept buckets at the end.

**Note3:** Why, for the love of top hats why, do I always kill off my favourite characters? (Seriously, being a favourite character of mine is a very hazardous occupation. Goodness only knows the number of times Inspector Javert has perished at my hands…) Enough of that, onwards!


	58. Be at Heart United

**Note:** Part two of today's update. And remember I said that I was extremely proud of my Sorting Hat song? Well, here it is again...

* * *

**Chapter Fifty-Eight**

**Be At Heart United**

Staring up at the great portraits of the founders and at the various members of staff arguing with them, Minerva was suddenly reminded of the Sorting Hat's song, its cryptic end verses finally falling into place.

_But though these houses stand alone  
They must be at heart united.  
For no good can ever come  
When the founders are divided._

Here they were, at the heart of the school, and here were the founders, once more united.

"Feet, Minerva."

The headmistress was brought back to the present by a voice in the vicinity of her ankles and she looked down to see Bathsheba on the floor, working her way around the wool that ran round the room like a multicoloured serpent and that Minerva was standing on without realising. She stepped obediently into the ring of yarn and let Bathsheba continue her appraisal. Minerva looked at the rest of her colleagues, most of whom were still looking around the chamber in awe with mutterings along the lines of 'how could we have missed this all these years?' One of her fellows, however, was engaged in a debate that was becoming increasingly heated and threatening to ruin the tense and eerie quiet in the cavernous room. Charity Burbage was standing in front of Slytherin's portrait with her hands on her hips and an expression of defiance on her young face. Never usually one of much gumption, Charity could pick her moments when she wanted to, and Minerva thought that it would be best to try and act as peacekeeper; her own opinions of the founder aside, it would not do to open rifts when they most needed allies. She crossed the room towards her colleague.

"And another thing…" Charity was saying as Minerva approached.

"Charity," the headmistress began.

"… I still don't see how, oh, hello Minerva. I was just asking the former Professor Slytherin how on earth this is going to work considering… Well, I'm sure you know what I'm talking about."

Charity drew herself up to her full, if diminutive, height with the ruffled air of an indignant peacock.

"You know, I was wondering the same thing myself," said Filius, coming up on Minerva's other side. "How can Slytherin put in place a protection against a regime that ultimately, he began in the Chamber of Secrets a thousand years ago?" The charms teacher looked up at the portrait sceptically. The founder's glance to the left and right for assistance from his contemporaries did not go unnoticed by Minerva, but the other pictures were too busy in discussion with their own alumni to pay him any heed.

"The Chamber of Secrets was after my time," he said eventually.

"You built it!" Charity exploded, any semblance of deference that she had previously held towards one of the ultimate parents of her beloved institution seeming to vanish with that single accusatory sentence.

"Yes, but only after the portrait was painted."

Slytherin's ally came in the form of Septima, his own house member.

"All of these pictures are young, painted at the birth of the school. The protection was likewise set in place at this time. That is why it will work."

"Contrary to how popular history has construed the relationship between the founders, we were not enemies from the outset," said Slytherin. "We were four friends and colleagues who came together in a time of crisis to build a safe haven, a safe haven that we determined to protect even after our demise. It was only after a significant amount of time had passed that our views became… polarised."

It made sense, thought Minerva, and she could tell that however grudgingly, Filius and Charity had accepted that it made sense as well. Portraits were likenesses of their subjects at the time of painting, not only in body but also in mind. Whilst any portrait only became fully cognate after the death of the sitter, the personality retained was one to match the appearance. As Septima had said, this portrait was young and so was its mind. What he had done and what atrocities Voldemort had committed in the name of his ideals aside, this Slytherin still belonged, mentally, to a time before, a time when the school and its charges had to be protected at all costs against all comers. A later portrait would have no doubt held a wholly different view of the current situation. Slytherin knew this too, and there was therefore little wonder at the confusion apparent in the chamber.

_Red and green and blue and yellow  
Come together all once more  
To find the greatest secret  
Hidden in these hallowed halls._

The founders were to reunite and work together for the first time since Slytherin had left the school. Minerva looked down at the line of wool at her feet, where, intertwined with the ever-present thread of gold, there wove the jewel-like yarns that represented the founders themselves. The four colours had come together once more and Hogwarts' best kept secret had been revealed: the protection built into its very core.

"We're short."

Bathsheba's voice, clipped and nervous, cut through the room. She was staring down at the two loose threads crossed over the palm of her hand.

We're missing people, members of the school," she continued.

Minerva performed a quick headcount and with a churning stomach, she realised who was missing. She had passed Severus on her way to the meeting but she had not seen him since. His words of the early hours of the morning echoed through her mind.

"_If I am called then I will answer, Minerva, it is as simple as that."_

"Severus isn't here," she said quietly.

Bathsheba raised an eyebrow and her glance flickered over Minerva's shoulder to Aurora. The younger witch had been listening to the exchange and was now standing with her arms folded and her mouth set in a thin line, angry.

"Well, this has all been a waste of time then," she snapped. "Trying to unite the whole school when there's a traitor in the midst was never going to work, was it? We might as well throw the gates open and invite the Death Eaters in. Coming to think of it, I'm amazed we haven't done that already."

"Aurora!" said Bathsheba sternly, interrupting the stargazer's tirade. "Remember what we said back in November."

Aurora sighed and looked around the room in exasperation, floundering for an argument.

"No," she said eventually.

"That there's more to that man than meets the eye." Bathsheba glanced at Minerva and furrowed her brow. "You look as if you've seen a ghost, my dear."

Minerva had not been paying much attention to the brief exchange between Bathsheba and Aurora; her mind desperately trying to think of a solution. Severus had known this meeting was taking place, he knew it was urgent, and he was not here. That could only mean one thing.

"He's doomed," she said eventually. "He's gone to Voldemort and he won't be coming back."

"Can I say 'I told you so' now?" asked Aurora plainly.

"No," said Minerva. "He's as good as dead as soon as he gets there."

There was only one answer as far as Minerva was concerned, and that was to go after him and catch him if she could. If he had been called then he still had to get out of the castle, and that was going to be easier said than done now that it was in a state of lockdown. The only feasible option for him would be…

The head's office fireplace. Minerva opened the door and hared out of the room.

"Headmistress, I don't understand, what in Merlin's name do you mean that You-Know-Who's going to kill Severus?" Aurora's voice echoed along behind her as she transformed to take advantage of the tabby's greater speed, bounding along the corridors and up staircases, returning to human form to give the password and gain admittance to her domain. As she had suspected, Severus was at the fireplace.

"Wait, Severus, there…"

She was too late. He had disappeared into the emerald light of the grate.

"…is another way."

Minerva stared into the fireplace. Their final defence had literally gone up in flames. Now she had to tell the rest of the staff this, and in doing so, reveal the deception that she and Severus had played out under their noses since Albus's death. It would have had to come out at this juncture anyway; Aurora's reaction and Charity's misgivings were proof enough of the unease within the school, but now the silence that had the head and deputy had kept was all the more fatal.

"Minerva!"

Bathsheba's voice was sharp and demanded attention, and Minerva turned to see the ancient runes professor entering the room, panting slightly.

"Minerva," the older witch repeated as she caught up to the headmistress. "Even if, by some miracle, you find Severus survives this ordeal and returns to us on whichever side he is currently playing, it's still not enough. There's still someone else missing."

Minerva faltered.

"Who? Everyone was present…"

Bathsheba shook her head, cutting off Minerva mid-sentence.

"Not everyone. Not all the staff. There is still one missing." She held up a small piece of rough, pale grey yarn, left over from the main pattern. "It's Argus, Minerva. Magic or not, he is still an integral part of the school and is represented and required as such."

Minerva felt the sudden urge to sit down in the middle of the office floor out of sheer confusion and helplessness. They had been so close and now everything seemed to be slipping through her fingers. Her emotions must have been apparent as Bathsheba took a step towards her.

"Minerva, there is always hope. You've managed to pull us through this past year, through all the trials and tribulations that have gone with it, and you have never once given up hope even in the bleakest of times. Now is not the time to break that track record. Yes, everything seems lost, but where there's a will there's a way, or some other such inspirational nonsense. Now, I don't claim to know what on earth our absent defence professor has been doing all year, nor why he has an effective death sentence from the master that the majority of the castle believes him to serve whole-heartedly, but I do know that Severus is extremely clever and that if anyone can get out of whatever it is that's waiting on the other side of that fireplace, then it's him. You know that too. So I say we leave Severus to take care of himself and focus on a more immediate problem at hand, namely that of Mr Filch. Where do we find him and how do we persuade him that we have not gone mad?"

Minerva took a deep breath and strengthened her resolve. Whilst she could not share Bathsheba's optimism concerning Severus's ultimate fate, there was nothing more that she could do for him and waiting was her only feasible option. And if, of course, the miracle that Bathsheba foresaw did come true, then it made no sense whatsoever for them to be unprepared when time was of the essence.

"Let's find Argus," she said. Bathsheba nodded her approval and the two witches left the office and headed in the direction of the caretaker's office. It was situated fairly centrally within the school for ease of access, but there was no guarantee that the man would be in there when there always seemed to be something demanding his attention at all hours of the day and indeed night. It was early evening, hopefully he would neither be running around after the students as they went about their daily affairs nor patrolling the corridors for those breaking curfew. Minerva knocked on the door but there was no reply, and there was no way of guessing where he might be. Suddenly, an idea occurred to her, and she retransformed, pattering along the corridor on feline paws, Bathsheba hurrying along behind. When she was in her animagus form, Minerva's senses were altered accordingly, increasing her sensitivity to the smell of, amongst other things, other cats. Trying to track Mrs Norris to find her owner was a shot in the dark but it was a better option than combing the school randomly. She knew that Filch had several store cupboards dotted around the school that he used as alternative offices when Peeves had decided to take apart his official residence, but she didn't know exactly where she might find them. She pattered through the corridors, following her senses and instinct with Bathsheba hurrying along behind, dreading to think how much time was slipping away from them in this search. Finally she found an ajar door that seemed to be promising. She transformed once more and the ancient runes teacher raised an eyebrow.

The headmistress knocked and there came a hasty shuffling of papers. Through the crack between the door and the frame, Minerva saw Filch hastily hide his latest Kwikspell pamphlet under Mrs Norris' basket, earning a disgruntled yowl from the unseated cat.

"Come in!" he called gruffly. "Headmistress," he added with a degree of deference on seeing his visitor. "Professor Babbling."

"Argus, we need your help," said Minerva, thinking it best to get straight to the point. "The entire school needs your help."

Filch's eyebrows shot to his hairline and disappeared there.

"_My_ help?"

"Yes." Minerva wondered how to explain. "If the entire school joins together then we can protect the castle against Voldemort. But we can't do it without you. You are a part of the school as much as any of the rest of the staff."

"You've been here longer than some of them," pointed out Bathsheba.

There was a long pause whilst Argus mulled over the information that he had just been given, and Minerva was daring to hope that perhaps their hasty flattery had done the trick. His eyes lingered longingly on the manacles that had been outlawed so long ago but that he still kept on him 'just in case'. Bathsheba took a step forward and lbent down so that her eyes were level with the caretaker's. He didn't seem all too sure.

"Argus, I didn't want to have to resort to this, hoping that you would help us out of the goodness of your heart and your loyalty to the school, because everything aside, your loyalty is to the school rather than to any of us. But we are fast running out of time and I feel that cutting to the chase is the best choice here. I know, Argus, that you are pondering the possibility of a better school under a new regime. We all know how much you miss Delores Umbridge."

"Best thing that happened to the school in years," said Filch wistfully.

"But to be brutally honest, Argus, life under You-Know-Who will be massively different. Because once the systematic expulsion, slaughter, or otherwise of all the students of so-called tainted blood has taken place, what will happen next? Who will be the next to go? I can assure you, Argus, that there will be no place for squibs in You-Know-Who's new world order. I think you know that too. However many miscreants he may have allowed you to hang from their big toes in the dungeons, your tenure would always have been limited."

Silence reigned supreme. Bathsheba's words, however hard, were in hindsight true.

Eventually Filch nodded, however grudgingly.

"What do I have to do?" he grunted as he eased into a standing position and followed the two witches out of the appropriated cupboard. Minerva grimaced; she didn't know herself.

"We'll find out when we get there," she answered honestly, "but the sooner the better." She hoped that this lack of foreknowledge would not put Argus off now that they had secured his co-operation, and nothing more was said as they returned swiftly to the Room of Requirement. Poppy greeted them as they entered.

"I've had to explain," she said. "Everything that's been going on this past year. Next time warn me before leaving me in the lurch. After you left it turned into… well, I'm not quite sure what it turned into."

"Controlled mayhem," said Filius. "As incredulous and wary as I am that you have managed to keep us all in the dark for so long, Minerva, it was an incredible achievement to do so. Poppy's explanation proved remarkably timely, in fact…"

"And now we are complete," said Gryffindor from his position on the wall, watching Filch skulk into the chamber. "The school united."

"But Severus…"

Minerva trailed off as the staff began to move to the outside edges of the room and a familiar figure became apparent in the centre.

"…because Severus arrived just as she was finishing the tale." Filius finally finished his sentence and moved away to allow Severus to come over and take his place at Minerva's side, deputy head.

"You're alive." The two words were hopelessly clichéd in the circumstances but they were all Minerva could think of to say.

Severus nodded.

"At great cost to another." There was a note of finality in his voice and Minerva knew not to push the subject further but simply be grateful that events had come to pass in this way. She looked around the room, at the school gathered there, united against a common foe. She had no idea what to expect; was there some kind of enchantment to be read, a spell to be performed that would bind them all together and render the castle impenetrable?

A faint glow ran around the train of wool, seeming to answer her question, and Minerva felt a heavy wave of magic descend upon them, almost palpable in its potency.

"It is done," said Hufflepuff, "and not a moment too soon, I believe."

There were no windows in the chamber but Minerva had a terrible idea of what the founder was referring to. She made her excuses and left the room, the other staff following her as she flew along the corridors to the nearest window facing onto the gates.

Voldemort was there with his Death Eaters, deep in conversation with Bellatrix Lestrange. As Minerva looked on, he seemed to recognise the presence of spectators and stared up at the castle.

"Good evening, Professor McGonagall," he said calmly, his voice amplified to reach them from the perimeter. "My reason for arriving at such short notice is simple. I want Potter. You will either give him to me, or I shall come in and find him myself. The choice is yours."

Minerva did not reply, what could she say? This was the moment of truth. Would the old magic be enough to save them now? All they could do was wait, and hope…

* * *

**Note2:** Snape is alive! The castle is wrapped in a lovely knitted blanket! But I spy trouble on the horizon... Well, when isn't there trouble when Madame Lestrange is in the vicinity and when Harry has been having madcap ideas concerning the destruction of horcruxes? But first things first, I think we ought to see how the Daring Ministry Raid is going, don't you?

**Note3:** There's so little around on the founders and their connections to each other before Slytherin broke away that I felt justified in using my own licence to fill in the gaps. It's just one of those things I wonder about in idle moments. Yep, I am that weird.


	59. Things Amiss

**Note: **Argh! I am so incredibly sorry for not updating for a month. Yes, it has been exactly a month. Various things got in the way: Stress, Christmas, revision, stress, Michael Crawford, stress, exam season and my inspiration being taken over by several other new, shiny exciting things, including but not limited to Colin Firth, anthropomorphised spy planes, Choderlos de Laclos and that guy from that thing that I can't remember the name of. You know, the one I always get mixed up with, erm, that other guy… Ok, forget that. Several attempts to reignite my HP spark failed. Not even a trip to Harrods' Harry Potter shop (I was sat at the top of the Egyptian escalator writing in my little notebook GOOD GRIEF THEY HAVE A HARRY POTTER SHOP IN HARRODS... you can tell I'm not a regular there...) and the autographed picture of Jason Isaacs in his full get-up that I got for Christmas could help me out.

So in the end, completely exasperated and annoyed with my inability to write, I decided to buy myself some more time by changing the order of the chapters. I know I said, at the end of the last update (yeah, back in 2011…) that we were going back to the Ministry, but we aren't. This chapter was originally due to be chapter sixty, but since the events in the proposed chapter fifty-nine and in this one have no bearing on each other, I am perfectly at liberty to switch them around. And since this one has been written for some time now, there was absolutely no point in my keeping on delaying it. I hope you enjoy despite the tardiness, and next time we really will be back in the Ministry!

* * *

**Chapter Fifty-Nine**

**Things Amiss**

The Dark Lord rolled his eyes and gave a heavy, theatrical sigh.

"Well, my dear," he said to Bellatrix, standing beside him. "I think that the Gryffindors' pride mentality has once more won out over good common sense, and they have chosen to risk all of their lives instead of sending one cub to the slaughter."

Bellatrix nodded her agreement, and despite the contempt that she held her old house enemies in, she could not help but be fascinated at the inherent differences in their ways of thinking. To her mind, it simply did not make sense not to save oneself before all else; the nobility of taking a sacrifice for another was illogical. And yet here they were, the hundreds in the school willing to risk their own lives to protect the one student who had caused them nothing but trouble for the seven years that he'd been at Hogwarts. They were all, without a shadow of a doubt, completely mad.

"They have no concept of the greater good," lamented the Dark Lord, twirling his wand between his fingers as he pondered his next course of action. "I have always said that there must be a few sacrifices on the path to greatness. Ah, Minerva, I am sure that we could have had a very good working relationship if you did not refuse to see the necessity of a little collateral damage here and there."

Bellatrix remembered all the collateral damage that she had caused, that all her colleagues had caused during the past year, and she shrugged. They were necessary sacrifices. No-one was going to miss them, were they? She looked up at the still and silent castle, wondering what the inhabitants were thinking and feeling a smile of satisfaction creeping over her face as she imagined the students gathered in their various common rooms, cowering in fear. They'd been kept so sheltered and cosseted for so long, but now there was no escape. Now the real world was about to invade, and it would be a bloody, brutal culture shock. Hogwarts, the last bastion of the old regime, which had been crumbling and cracking under the pressure for so long now, was about to give out completely, a pathetic and spluttering cough of final resistance before it collapsed wearily into the Dark Lord's hands with the minimum of fuss.

"Well, since his protectors have rather stupidly decided to keep him within their midst," the Dark Lord began, "I think that the time has come for us to fetch him by force. Do you agree, Bellatrix?"

Bellatrix did not just agree; she was relishing the prospect. Ever since the all-too-brief skirmish at the end of the last academic year, she had been itching to bring Hogwarts to its knees, and the Ministry's intervention the month before had served only to increase her appetite and frustration. She wanted the satisfaction of a job well finished, and finished by her own hand. She was particularly looking forward to meeting Professor McGonagall again, since the Dark Lord had already claimed Potter for himself and she could not go against his wishes, as much as she wanted to teach the brat a lesson. She remembered an evening long ago, when this excursion was first planned; a drunken evening when she and her comrades had divided up the staff amongst them. Such a pity that Rodolphus was not there. She would have to take his share instead. Suddenly the Dark Lord's voice boomed through the air, bringing Bellatrix back to reality with a jump that she quickly covered.

"You are at a disadvantage, Minerva," he drawled. "I have killed your spy and you have lost your element of surprise. If you are certain that you still want to continue your weak attempt at resistance, then I'm afraid that I shall have to take more drastic action."

There was no reply from the castle. Bellatrix had not expected one. If there was one thing that she remembered from her school days, it was that the transfiguration professor had been remarkably stubborn when she wanted to be, usually on the subject of Bellatrix's missing homework.

"Then you leave me with no choice."

The Dark Lord brought his wand down against the gates to open them; the spell alone should have been enough to break the protections that Hogwarts set in place around its boundaries, but what happened next no-one could have anticipated, much less explained. As the wand met the metal, a shower of sparks erupted, red, green, yellow, blue, but above all gold. The energy was vicious and almost alive as it shot out of the point of contact; Bellatrix had to jump to one side to avoid being caught in the crossfire.

"What is this?" hissed the Dark Lord, the anger in his voice fusing with disbelief and… Bellatrix dismissed the thought from her mind as soon as it had crossed it; such a thing was surely impossible. The Dark Lord of all people did not panic. He raised his wand and tried again with more vehemence, different spells and incantations, but with each attempt the repelling force merely became stronger.

"Bellatrix," he said curtly, indicating for her to take over. Bellatrix nodded and cast the most destructive spell that she could think of at the time. The backlash from the gates coursed up her wand and into her hand, causing her to drop her wand in pain. Angered, she tried to open the gates by hand without magic, but the reaction was tenfold stronger and Bellatrix was certain that her fingers were smoking as she withdrew.

"This can't be!" roared the Dark Lord. "It's impossible! Snape is dead! I watched him die!"

"My Lord…" Bellatrix was completely confused; she had no idea what new and wholly unexpected challenge they were facing, and she had even less idea what Snape's death had to do with it. Her master turned to look at her sharply, his expression crazed.

"Snape is dead," he repeated. "But if this old magic is in place then he cannot be." He stared at the gates once more. "Unless…"

They stood in silence as the Dark Lord contemplated the status quo. For want of something to do and in ignorance of what he was thinking and planning, Bellatrix tried the gates again.

"Bellatrix, stop that," he snapped. "We are going to need a far more subtle tactic to get past this particular obstacle, a tactic that requires deep thought rather than mindless destruction."

Criticism from her master always stung, and Bellatrix took a step back, abashed.

"My Lord," ventured Rabastan. "What appears to be the problem?"

Bellatrix rolled her eyes at her brother-in-law.

"I would have thought that was quite obvious, Rabastan," she said. "We can't get in."

"But surely…"

"Silence!" hissed the Dark Lord. He reached out his hand to within a half-inch of the metal and watched, almost mesmerised, as the golden sparks began to form there in anticipation of his touch. "Even after everything, they have still succeeded."

He hurled a curse at the gates and the fallout caused Rabastan and Bellatrix to duck. He whirled round and pointed his wand at Bellatrix.

"Go back to the Manor and bring Severus Snape's body back to these gates," he said, his voice dangerous and leaving no room for negotiation. "This cannot be true."

Bellatrix did not need telling twice; as much as she wanted to enjoy every minute of Hogwarts' downfall, she knew that there would be no changing the Dark Lord's mind once he was in such a state of ire. She disapparated at once and landed in front of the Manor that they had left earlier. She passed through the gates and looked up at the place her sister had called home for the past twenty years. Even Bellatrix, a self-confessed proponent of excess, knew that there was a thing as too much, and she was certain that the Manor was a touch overdone. Unfortunately she couldn't blame Lucius for that entirely; the monstrosity had been in his family for generations but every time she looked up at the foreboding gothic façade, she could not help but be touched by jealousy, that her little sister should have fallen on such good fortune. Oh, Rodolphus had not been short of wealth, not at all, but the Malfoy inheritance had always held far more prestige.

Bellatrix shook herself out of her bitter reflections and entered the darkened building in search of Severus's corpse. Of course he was dead, they'd all watched as Nagini had let the life pour out of him in a thick ruby stream before they'd departed for the school, leaving Narcissa to clear up the mess in her drawing room.

Now, however, Bellatrix was having second thoughts. However much she trusted her master implicitly; there had been an uncertainty in his voice that she had never heard before. Whatever had happened at the gates had not been meant to happen, and it had startled him. Used to simply following his orders and accepting that he knew what he was doing, this had unsettled Bellatrix. There would be a perfectly good explanation, she was sure of it. First things first, she had to find the body. She was half-considering simply yelling for her sister and asking her what, if anything, she'd done with it.

"Narcissa!" she called, her voice echoing through the empty entrance way. There was no reply. Wherever Narcissa was, she wasn't going to play along. Either she was hiding in fear of her life or sulking, but either way, she wasn't going to come out in a hurry. "Lucius?" Perhaps he might be able to help her.

Again she did not receive a reply. Where was the family? Bellatrix sighed and made her way through to the drawing room, muttering to herself.

The room was empty, the only trace of the deed that had taken place there the dark patch on the antique Persian rug that no amount of magical stain remover would get out in a hurry. Narcissa had been busy.

She left the room and stood in the hallway, wondering where she would have put the body, if it was still in the house even. Bellatrix did not want to think of the Dark Lord's reaction if she returned without the object of her mission. She cast cursory glances around the rooms on the ground floor and then made for the cellar stairs. As she flicked her wand to unlock the door, she was certain that she heard something behind her and she spun round to see who was there, but the room was empty. She scolded herself for her paranoia and looked around the cellar, but this again was empty, even of prisoners of their regime. She left the room and jumped backwards on finding herself face-to-face with her sister.

"Cissy, I didn't notice you come down. You startled me."

"It is an advantage, being able to apparate in your own house," said Narcissa coolly. "Looking for something, Bella? Severus perhaps?"

Bellatrix gave a curt nod.

"You'll have more luck in the first guest bedroom." Narcissa turned on her heel and left the cellar, Bellatrix following. Something in her sister's behaviour was making her nervous. There was a steely determination in Narcissa's voice, something that Bellatrix had not heard since she had taken it upon herself to seek out Severus to help Draco in his plight the summer before last.

"The first guest room?" she said. "A little grand for a traitor, don't you think?"

"Common courtesy to the dead," said Narcissa flatly. "You can at least give them something soft to lie on."

She stopped at the entrance to the room in question and indicated for Bellatrix to enter. It was dark; Narcissa's courtesy to the dead had extended to a single candle on the mantelpiece. Her eyes alighted on the sheet covered lump on the bed, and she raised her wand to levitate it, but before she could do so, a wave of uneasiness came over her. Severus was dead, he was definitely dead, no-one could survive what he'd gone through. There was no possible way in which he could suddenly come back to life and strangle her with his death shroud. All the same, she felt she ought to be sure.

Carefully, she lifted the cloth away from his head and blinked dumbly at the sight that met her.

"Merlin…"

Bellatrix heard the door click softly locked and looked round to see Narcissa leaning calmly against the jamb, her arms folded and a horribly neutral expression on her face.

"There is a wonderful thing, Bellatrix, named polyjuice potion. I believe you are familiar with its effects."

"Cissy…" She glanced back at Lucius's pale and lifeless face. "I… The Dark Lord… When Lucius decides to be noble, then…"

"The Dark Lord may have killed Lucius, Bella, but you yourself certainly helped him along the road to his fate. You made a very good attempt on his life on Christmas Day, I must say. If it wasn't for Cam's timely intervention then you may well have succeeded. You poisoned him."

"I…" Bellatrix's brows knitted together. She remembered the incident, of course she did, but she was certain that she had not had any express intention of poisoning her brother-in-law however tempting it had been at the time. Narcissa laughed, a hollow laugh tinged with the faintest edge of grief-borne hysteria.

"You didn't even realise! You didn't even know, much less care. Just give him the first thing to hand that knocks him out for a few hours so that you can terrorise his son." She paused. "How stupid are you, Bella? How ridiculously near-sighted do you have to be to believe that you can try to teach Draco to use the unforgiveable three against his own father, even if he was in fact some unfortunate anonymous under the influence of polyjuice?"

Bellatrix could almost hear the splash of the venom dripping from Narcissa's words onto the floorboards as she continued.

"But no, as if that was not enough you tried again. In March, to be precise, after the diadem incident. Some curses don't mix, Bella, and they especially don't mix with potions ostensibly designed to negate their effects. You know that. You're an assassin, of course you know that. You know that, but you didn't care. You didn't think. You never think. The Dark Lord's little pet viper might have finished the job but it was your actions that helped begin the journey, the journey that led to this decision and this outcome."

Bellatrix turned her wand on her sister but Narcissa merely shook her head.

"I wouldn't do that if I were you," she said. "You unfortunately don't remember what happened last time, but suffice it to say, it was not a particularly good outcome for you."

Bellatrix remembered the sudden cut-off in her memories of Rowle's death.

"You?"

Narcissa shrugged.

"This time, however, you'll lose a lot more than your memory, Bella."

Bellatrix backed up, her mind feverishly working on a strategy.

"Your own sister, Cissy?"

Narcissa shrugged.

"Weren't you the one who always said that there must be some sacrifices along the way to save yourself?"

She cast the expelliarmus unexpectedly and Bellatrix's wand flew out of her hand.

"You'll end up in Azkaban, Cissy."

Narcissa merely laughed.

"For killing a wanted murderess? I doubt it. I'm doing them a favour in the long run. But not here," she added, looking sadly at her husband. "Not in this room."

Bellatrix felt in her pocket for her knife. So many of her comrades scorned her decision of a second weapon but she could not deny that it was useful to have a wholly non-magical item upon which she could always fall back in situations like these. Before she could use it, either to throw or to rush at her sister, Narcissa had opened the door and flung Bellatrix through it in a whirlwind of magic made stronger by the second wand she held. The blade was flung from her hand and embedded itself in the doorframe, the handle quivering from the force.

"The problem with fighting me," said Narcissa, panting from the doubled backlash, "is that I know you far too well."

"Cissy, you're mad."

"Runs in the family then, doesn't it?" She doubled over to catch her breath, as Bellatrix scrambled to her feet. She looked from Narcissa to the knife and then back to her sister and the wands she was holding.

"Don't bother," said Narcissa, straightening and pointing her own wand. "It's over, Bellatrix. You brought this on yourself at Christmas, and then again in March. Hell hath no fury like a woman whose sister damn near widowed her."

Bellatrix laughed. For all that Narcissa might talk, for all that she might be able to duel and harm in that way, she knew that her sister would not have the strength to cast the ultimate spell.

"You don't have the guts, Cissy." She spread her arms wide. "Go on then. If you're that angry, if you want revenge that badly. Go on and kill me."

Narcissa replaced the wands in a pocket of her robes and folded her arms. Bellatrix sneered.

"I knew you couldn't. You had your chance back at Cam's, you could have finished me off there but you didn't. Blood is thicker than water, Cissy." She began to laugh. "I knew you couldn't."

"I already have, Bella," said Narcissa quietly. "I already have. An hour ago. The elf wine with which you toasted the Dark Lord's triumph over his traitor. Strong enough to mask the taste."

Bellatrix felt sick with the realisation, and she felt her knees give way beneath her. She had been with the Dark Lord and his invincibility for so long that she had never given thought to her own mortality. Her vision began to swim before her eyes and she couldn't tell if it was a psychological reaction to knowing that she had been poisoned, or whether this was truly the end.

"Goodbye, Bella."

Narcissa's voice was matter-of-fact as she moved away, back towards the room they had just left, but Bellatrix could just make out the telltale quiver of her lip. They had never been the closest of sisters; they had fought with tooth and talon at times and as the years had passed, they had grown only further apart.

But they were still sisters, linked undeniably by blood. They had both betrayed each other. As Bellatrix closed her eyes to the blackness threatening the edges of her vision, she thought she heard Narcissa crying.


	60. Manhandling the Minister

**Note:** My dear readers, my zen is back! Yes, despite my newly-discovered addiction to Mad Men (I'm seriously obsessed – Sal is awesome!), and my head currently being held to ransom by the Phantom of the Opera and a Parisian art dealer (long story...), the old HP spark was reignited after a very strange dream involving Harry, Draco and a suit of armour... Enjoy the results.

**Note2:** Moving around the Ministry: I am working on the general principle because I have not as yet found anything to contradict it that people can apparate _into_ and _out of_ the Ministry but they cannot apparate _within_ it.

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**Chapter Sixty**

**Manhandling the Minister**

The lift in which the remaining Order members were travelling towards the atrium stopped at the second floor and the Department of Magical Law Enforcement, and Kingsley exited.

"Kingsley, what are you doing?" asked Hestia. "Aren't you coming with us?"

"I'm trying for reinforcements," said Kingsley grimly. "I'll catch you up."

"Well, good luck," said Arthur, his voice betraying his unease at the auror's sudden and unexpected departure. He hit the required button again and the lift dropped them out of sight once more, leaving Kingsley alone in the empty corridor. Although he had no idea what the outcome of his hastily made decision would be, he was quietly optimistic. His ex-colleagues were a good bunch, even if they were currently serving under slightly misguided leadership. And Dawlish himself wasn't all bad, just an inept and easily manipulated head of section. It was probably for this reason that he'd been kept on in the job after the Ministry had fallen. Kingsley was sure that it would not take much to convince his co-workers to join them in their last stand against the regime that they reluctantly served. He hurried down the corridor towards the Auror Office and, ignoring any slight feeling of trepidation in favour of focussing on the thrill of the unknown and the frisson of danger that had attracted him to his chosen career in the first place, opened the door.

"Kingsley? You're back?"

The office, occupied to less than half its usual capacity, stopped what little work it was doing a soon as he entered. Kingsley was staggered to see how much it had changed in the few short months that he had been away. His and Tonks' abandoned desks had not been reallocated, and they stood in foreboding company with a number of other more recently and rapidly vacated ones. The cheerful camaraderie that had always pervaded the place had gone, and in its place there was a gloomy air of not quite despair but definitely melancholy. Despondency reigned supreme. It should have been expected, of course, but the change made Kingsley momentarily forget the impassioned speech that he had been improvising on his way towards the room and begin in a much less oratorical fashion.

"Where is everybody?" he asked.

"Gone," said Forsyth, a grey-haired and bearded wizard fast approaching retirement who had always served as the director of operations for aurors in the field. His eyes were still as wide as saucers, staring at the prodigal son who had returned to his office once more. "They either followed your lead and got out when they could or were thrown out when upstairs management decided that a team of dark wizard catchers was a slight oxymoron under our current administration and downsized dramatically."

"We're the only ones left," added Miriam, who had been Tonks' best friend all through their time on the training programme together. She gestured around at the few occupied desks. "Well, Andy Anderson as well but he's gone home to drown his sorrows in firewhiskey. It's just us now. The ones who can't afford to give it up."

"But seriously, Kingsley," Forsyth began. "It's not that I'm not overwhelmingly pleased to see you in one piece; when we didn't hear anything for so long we feared the worst, but if anyone finds you in here, you won't be in one piece for much longer. They'll have your head."

"Who cares?" said Miriam flippantly. "If that's the case then they can have my head too." She got up from her desk and came over to Kingsley, shaking his hand until his teeth were rattling in his skull, and gradually the other aurors followed her lead. "He wouldn't come back if it wasn't for a fantastically good reason, would you, Kingsley? He's got his head screwed on straight. It's good to see you again. So… Why are you here?"

"We're taking back the Ministry," Kingsley replied quietly.

"I take back what I said about having your head screwed on straight," said Miriam drily. "Who's 'we'? How many of you?"

"There are eleven of us at the moment," Kingsley admitted, "but you could make it seventeen."

"Eleven. You're attempting to take over the Ministry with eleven people." Forsyth's expression was a perfect picture of worried, and yet slightly impressed, disbelief. The others leaned into the huddle that Miriam and Forsyth had begun, anxious to know what was going on. "It took You-Know-Who a year with an entire army."

"No, it took him less than half an hour with four people," said Kingsley. "The Ministry doesn't fall till the Minister does."

The undeniable fact engendered an uncomfortable silence which Miriam broke at length.

"Is Tonks part of this miniature army?" she asked. "You and she did a lot together."

Kingsley nodded.

"Then I'm in. Twelve against the Ministry. Anyone else?"

"The Minister is key," Kingsley continued. "Once he turns, the rest of the Ministry follows. All we have to do is get Thicknesse back on side and hopefully the rest of things should take care of themselves. There's someone working on Thicknesse as we speak; all we need to do is make sure that he stays uninterrupted by… ministerial aides."

Forsyth and the other aurors looked a little unsure but Kingsley could tell that they were warming to the idea, and he pressed on.

"What have you been doing for the past however many months since the change upstairs? Chasing down enemies of the regime, undesirables. How many of those people would you have arrested under Fudge or Grim? We all chose this job because we wanted to fight against evil, and look what a good job we did of that. Well, this is the chance to try and put it all right again. We're aurors. Like aurora. Dawn. The coming of light after darkness. That's got to resonate somewhere. Let's get back to the job we're meant to be doing."

There was a long pause, and finally, Forsyth and the other aurors agreed.

"You can count on us, Auror Shacklebolt," said the older wizard.

Kingsley nodded gratefully. He had known that the aurors, however few of them that remained in the broken office, would not need much persuasion to join him. Now they simply had to fight and defend their fellow wizards like they had been trained to do. Forsyth immediately began to organise his colleagues as if he was commanding raids once more.

"Auror Collins, go to the Floo Office and send a message to Anderson and our former colleagues, I'm fairly certain that they'll never forgive us if we get all the glory. The rest of us are with Shacklebolt. Lead on, MacTavish!"

"MacDuff," corrected Collins, who'd taken muggle studies.

"What's going on here? Shacklebolt?"

The aurors turned to see their perplexed-looking superior standing in the doorway to his office. Dawlish, Kingsley reflected, was looking less stupid and more harassed than he remembered ever seeing the man before, and, for a moment, he felt sorry for his fellow auror. He was only doing his job, after all, even if he wasn't doing it very well or with the slightest degree of imagination.

"We're taking on the machine," said Kingsley. "This has gone on long enough and it's high time someone did something about it."

"You're starting a revolution?" asked Dawlish incredulously.

"Or we'll die trying," said Miriam vehemently. "Are you coming, John, and proving that there's an auror inside that office, or are you going to continue hiding behind your in-tray?"

Dawlish looked at each of his fellow aurors in turn. As he opened his mouth to speak, however, another voice invaded the group, an instantly recognisable and thoroughly unwelcome one.

"Well, isn't this a nice little reunion. Welcome back, Auror Shacklebolt."

Dolores Umbridge was standing in the doorway of the Auror Office flanked by two goons from her department, smiling unpleasantly.

"Auror Dawlish, I trust you know what the form is concerning the treatment of deserters…"

Dawlish turned his attention to the parasitic presence in the doorway and, without a word, cast a stunning spell, leaving her useless bodyguards staring stupidly at the slumped figure between them for a second before he put them out of their misery.

"I cannot stand that woman and her lackeys," he said. "Come on, Kingsley, we're right behind you."

They could not have arrived in the atrium a moment too soon. The reinforcements whose arrival the Order had feared had indeed materialised in the entrance to the Ministry and a pitched battle had begun between these new soldiers and the waiting defenders. Although the numbers looked fairly evenly matched at that moment, the Order not horrifically outnumbered, Kingsley had the horrible feeling that they would not remain so for long and that there was more to the scene than met the eye. The aurors needed no prompting to enter the fray and Kingsley quickly dispatched the Death Eater against whom Hestia was putting up a brave fight.

"There are more of them," she panted as Kingsley helped her to her feet. "They split up as soon as they arrived; they'll have gone after Bill and Percy."

"There are more aurors on their way," Kingsley assured her. "We'll hold off the main force here, you take Arthur and the others and try to intercept the individuals. We've got to give Bill as much time as possible."

Hestia nodded her understanding and, covered by Kingsley's colleagues, she and the other Order members less habituated to such combat left the atrium to continue the hunt. Kingsley had no time to ponder the on the possibility, or lack thereof, of their success; he had already been engaged in another duel with another faceless warrior. All he could do was fight and hope.

X

The partitioned-off part of the office in which the Minister's secretary worked was empty when Bill and Percy entered the room.

"Hmm," said Percy. "If his conduct of previous months is anything to go by, our esteemed governmental leader has secretary in his office and is finding numerous pretexts to get her to bend over."

Bill looked at his brother.

"Were you always this cheerfully cynical or is a recent change?"

Percy merely glared at him and, straightening so that he grew two inches on the spot, he knocked on the inner door to the Minister's lair and calmly waited for a reply, as if this was everyday behaviour for him. A frantic scramble could be heard from within the chamber; it sounded as if papers were being hastily set in order and as if the Minister was trying to create the impression that he had indeed been engaged in serious work vital to the wizarding world.

"I thought the door was sealed," they heard Thicknesse mutter. "Who in Merlin's name can have got in? If it's Yaxley again, I'll…"

Percy, evidently tired of waiting, opened the door unannounced and strode in, Bill following close behind. The Minister was sitting behind his desk looking the picture of confusion whilst his secretary was looking very flushed and standing rather pointedly in the corner of the room furthest away from the desk.

"Mr Weasley and… Mr Weasley," Thicknesse began. "This is a most unexpected visit. May I assume…"

As Thicknesse continued to prattle on, not really paying any attention to his rhetoric, he was picking up his wand and beginning the motions of a spell that even though as yet unknown, was unlikely to have friendly consequences for the two intruders in his office. Bill noticed the movement and disarmed him, and the Minister's eyes widened.

"It's for your own good, sir," said Percy. "We'll explain it all once we've finished. The upper echelons of your administration are most worried about the state of your health and believe you to have been put under a curse by a maleficent unknown, and my brother here has kindly agreed to break it for you."

Thicknesse sat dumbly in his chair and Bill cast a quick glance at the secretary, still standing shell-shocked in the corner, before deciding that she was better left where they could keep an eye on her and moving forward to raise his own wand and attempt to diagnose the particulars of the curse, and afterwards break it.

Curse-breaking was a dangerous profession, Bill had always known this and accepted it. Curses generally broke themselves upon the death of their caster, but this was by no means a universal rule. One only had to look at the terrible traps in long-dead tombs to see evidence of that in practice. And some curses, of course, needed to be broken far sooner than natural (or unnatural) death would allow. This was one such case.

The imperius curse was one of the hardest to break, but it was not impossible. A lot of its difficulty depended upon how much independent resistance the victim had of their own accord.

But this case… Bill shook his head as he finished his preliminary diagnostic spells. This was a curse unlike any he'd ever encountered before, spells wrapped up in spells within spells, giving You-Know-Who complete control over the Minister's mind but at the same time making Thicknesse believe that his thoughts, decisions and actions were all of his own accord. In effect, the curse could not be broken because its victim did not want it to be broken; at a deeper psychological level he did not realise that he was being cursed. Most victims of the imperius recognised the fact that they were such, even if they could not do anything to prevent it – hence why there had been so many problems with its use as a defence at the original trials after the first war.

"Bill? Bill?"

It took a moment for Bill to realise that Percy had been trying to get his attention.

"Is everything all right?" his brother asked.

Bill shook his head.

"The curse is unbreakable," he muttered.

"What?"

"It's unbreakable," Bill repeated. "If I try… well, the best that could happen is that he ends up dead."

"That's the best?" exclaimed Percy incredulously.

"The worst case scenario is that he is rendered completely, psychotically insane."

"Oh."

There was a moment of absolute stillness and Bill could feel the great weight of failure falling heavily onto his shoulders. They had come with the express intention of his breaking the curse to free the Minister and thus the Ministry; they had not come to provoke an all-out battle. Bill swore out loud. If they had known that the curse was unbreakable before, then they would never have set out on this perilous mission and endangered all the others who had so bravely accompanied him. They should have known that the comparatively simple task would not be so very simple. Of course You-Know-Who would have failsafes in place to make sure that his grand regime could not be overthrown by a single curse-breaker.

"Is there nothing we can do?" Percy asked, but the next few moments provided the answer for him, showing that the Minister was beyond accepting their help. In an unanticipated burst of activity, Thicknesse shot up out of his desk, leapt across his desk with an agility that belied his age and grabbed his unsuspecting secretary, forcing her wand from her hand and digging its point into her ribs.

"Now, Messers Weasley, I believe that we have some matters to discuss."

X

Jim Wilkins, nominal deputy head of the Ministry executioners (that there were only two of them to start with was completely beside the point), listened to the running footsteps in the corridor outside their cramped office. The office itself was at the end of a long corridor that hardly anyone ventured down, but this in turn led to the main hall of the Department for the Regulation and Control of Magical Creatures, of which they were a subsection. It was from this part of the floor that they could hear the sort of sounds one would not usually expect to hear at quarter to eight in the evening. Something was distinctly Up, the thought being indeed worthy of capitalisation.

Jim turned to his superior, Tewkesbury, six-and-a-half feet of Devonshire-bred muscle that could probably behead a hippogriff without the need for an axe.

"Tewkesbury," he ventured (he could never get used to calling the huge man Geoffrey), "do you think something's Up?"

Tewkesbury nodded.

"Most certainly. Should we go and have a look?"

Jim was not sure that this was altogether the best idea, and from the look on Tewkesbury's face, he didn't think it was such a good suggestion either. As intimidating as the man was in appearance, he did have good common sense and knew that staying out of sight and therefore alive was generally a more attractive option than running pell mell into something they didn't understand. Before they could contemplate the moral highs and lows of remaining where they were versus investigating, however, the door to their office was flung open and a robed and masked Death Eater strode in, wand raised. Whilst Tewkesbury merely turned a pale shade of green, Jim gave a minute squeak and flung himself under his desk, hoping in vain that the sturdy wood and veritable mountain of overdue paperwork would protect him from whatever evil was no doubt coming his way.

"Don't hurt us!" he cried from his makeshift fortress as the Death Eater came further into the room. "We're only executioners, the pay's rubbish!"

"I know, Jim," replied the Death Eater, walking straight past the quivering wizard and towards the armoury at the back of the office, unlocking the door with a practiced hand and a well-used key. He tapped his wand against the chains that held one of the great axes, as long as Jim was tall with a two-foot blade, and it fell from the wall into his hands. "Well hello there, my bonnie lass," he crooned as he tested the weight. "Long time, no see."

"Walden?" choked Tewkesbury in disbelief as his former colleague passed back through the office with the axe, long since christened 'Matilda', swung over his shoulder. The Death Eater waved.

"See you in hell, lads. I've got me a werewolf to catch."

X

After splitting off from the rest of the group in the atrium, Arthur had found himself alone on the fourth floor of the Ministry, separated from the rest of the Order who had followed in the myriad other directions taken by the Death Eaters. The corridor that he was in showed no signs of life but it would be imprudent not to make certain. Keeping his wits about him in case of a surprise attack, Arthur advanced along the corridor, wand outstretched and ready.

If the scream from an adjacent corridor made Arthur's blood run cold, that was nothing that compared to the fear that the loud howl that followed it inspired in his bones. It was a full moon, he realised with horrible trepidation. How could it have slipped their minds? After all the planning that had gone into this excursion, they had forgotten the fact that at least one of the Ministry's likely defenders would be at his most uncontrollably dangerous. Remus must have known though… Why had he not said anything?

There was no time to be wasted in anger at his friend's oversight or intentional misleading as a second scream pierced Arthur's eardrums. There was a werewolf in his immediate vicinity, and it was not Remus…


	61. The Wiles of the Serpent

**Disclaimer:** Read carefully in case I am accused of twisting my own logic – it has never been mentioned that the protection keeps people _in_, only that it keeps people _out_. This will be important later…

**Note:** *Kimmeth hoofs it up to London, kidnaps Ramin Karimloo and prods him with a knitting needle until he sings.* _And weeks pass, and months pass, time runs dry, still Kimmeth does not update_… Sorry folks, at least it hasn't been _TEN LONG YEARS!_ Ok, enough with the LND references. I'm here now, with a double bill no less, so that I don't leave you hanging on a cliffie for another however many months. I'm sorry for the mega delay but it's been stress central here!

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**Previously on C&I: **Well, it's all go! The Order has stormed the Ministry but it hasn't gone quite as to plan as they hoped and they now have a hostage situation and a rogue werewolf on their hands… Back at Hogwarts, Voldemort has turned up at the castle gates baying for blood. Thankfully the staff have invoked an ancient protection (no, not an Argyle Sweater of Doom) but how long will it last?

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**Chapter Sixty-One**

**The Wiles of the Serpent**

They had all known, somehow, that it would happen that evening. The indescribable tension in the air, that had been in the air ever since Harry had unwittingly revealed Snape's true allegiance to Voldemort, had been building up all day until it was unbearable, screaming to be released. Indeed, Harry had spent the majority of the day – lessons having been cancelled whilst the staff held various crisis talks – staring out of the windows of the Gryffindor common room, watching the gates and waiting for something, anything to happen. It was the waiting that was the killer, that fear of the unknown that could only be dispersed with the arrival of that same unknown.

Well, it was not a complete unknown that they were anticipating. Sooner or later, Voldemort's army would arrive at the gates baying for blood, and no-one, least of all Harry, had been at all surprised when this had come to pass. Now they were waiting for what happened next, something that none of them could predict. Voldemort's ultimatum had gone out, and Harry had found himself suddenly the centre of attention; he could sense the eyes of everyone else in the common room boring into him and the hairs on the back of his neck stood on end. He turned and faced the rest of the gathered Gryffindors, most of them members of Dumbledore's Army, all wearing looks of a fierce determination and protectiveness that their house's symbol would be proud of.

"Let him come," said Ron simply, under his breath. "You aren't going anywhere, mate."

Harry was touched by the camaraderie, but there was something in the back of his mind telling him that even if it did come down to a battle, Voldemort storming the castle with the express intention of killing him, there was still something else. It would still not be the end, no matter how hard they might fight or, dare they hope, how victorious they might seem to be. His thoughts had immediately turned in that direction as soon as he had heard Neville working out a plan of action for getting the rest of the DA together and forming some kind of defensive strategy, as soon as he had heard mention of the Slytherins.

Nagini. The final horcrux. She was still out there somewhere, and she needed to be killed before Voldemort himself. If this was to be the definitive battle – and from the size of the attacking and defending forces it certainly looked as if it was going to be – then Nagini would have to be destroyed first. It was a task far more easily said than done. Harry sank into one of the unoccupied armchairs, trying to look interested in Neville's plan but all the while desperately trying to work out the logistics of a nigh-on impossible task. For a start, he did not know where the snake might be, where Voldemort might have hidden her for safe-keeping in the wake of the destruction of the rest of his horcruxes. Even if he did have the faintest clue as to a location, he faced the even more unenviable task of getting out of the castle in order to do anything about her. The building was in a lockdown and if he tried to leave by any sort of conventional method then everyone, especially Professor McGonagall, would know about it, and he did not think for a minute that the headmistress would approve of his setting foot out of the safety of the castle's confines in order to venture into enemy territory, however noble his mission was.

"Harry?"

"Harry?"

It took Harry several moments to realise that Ron and Hermione were attempting to talk to him, and he tore his gaze away from the middle distance to focus on their concerned faces and knitted brows.

"What's up?" asked Ron. "Well, the obvious excepted."

Harry made a quick glance around the common room at the rest of the Gryffindors, mobilising the DA as they were. Although they did not seem to be paying any attention to him in his little corner and were far more interested in what Neville was saying, he still didn't think it prudent to start explaining his train of thought out there in the open.

"Not here," he said to Ron. "Let's go somewhere private."

The others nodded their assent and Harry led their way to the boys' dormitory for want of a better meeting place.

"The final horcrux," he began, once they were safely closeted in the room and unafraid of unwitting eavesdroppers. "Nagini. She'll be out there, with Voldemort, and we've got to destroy her before we go for him."

Neither Ron nor Hermione said anything in response to the undeniable truth; what could they say?

"What should we do?" asked Ron eventually. "We can't exactly walk out of the gates and say 'hand over the snake and no-one gets hurt', can we?"

"We shouldn't do anything," said Hermione, her voice brittle. "He's being kept out of the grounds; what's the point in risking everything by going out to meet him when we're safe in here?"

"Hermione, he doesn't have the snake with him," said Ron. "Look out of the window."

The others duly looked; there was no sign of Nagini in Voldemort's immediate vicinity.

"If he's got her secreted away somewhere then he's not likely to bring her in with him if and when the boundary fails, is he?" Ron continued. "He's probably hidden her somewhere for the sole purpose of keeping her safe in case some lucky soul does manage to kill him in the eventual onslaught."

"In that case, where do you think she is?" asked Hermione. There was an undercurrent of exasperation in her voice, as if she was trying desperately to stop their fledgling plan in its tracks but was running out of arguments before she had begun. "You can't start combing the country for a snake whilst time is of the essence."

"The Manor, perhaps?" Ron suggested. Harry shook his head. He'd been thinking of possible locations ever since the predicament had first entered his head and was finally coming to conclusions.

"No, I think he'd want her closer than that. She's generally always fairly near him, in previous experience, except when he sends her out to do his bidding. Perhaps the fact that she's a horcrux with a degree of autonomy means he has to keep a closer eye on her." Harry couldn't explain why, but he had the definite feeling that she would be nearer rather than further away, somewhere concealed safely in the vicinity and able to be called upon when necessary. "I think she'll be behind their lines somewhere, a little way off, nice and hidden."

Ron gestured his agreement and Hermione gave a momentary grimace before giving hers.

"I still don't think…" She broke off and threw up her hands in defeat. "Well, if you're determined then I can't try and stop you. Have you given any thought to how you're going to get out and, conversely, back in? The doors and fireplaces are locked down."

There was a long pause of silent thought in the room before Ron answered with a single word.

"Fly."

"Pardon?"

"We can fly. Broomsticks, you know. Fly over the boundary. If Fred and George can do it then we can."

Harry agreed and the two boys pulled out their broomsticks. There was another moment of silence and although both of them looked ready to set off on their perilous mission straight away, there was still one problem that no-one had as yet given voice to.

"Do you know how you're going to destroy her once you find her?" asked Hermione, plainly stating the very problem that Harry was turning over in his mind. "The sword is still in Professor McGonagall's office and I think this is one occasion where she might be a little reluctant to let you have it."

Harry grimaced, whilst he could not say that he hadn't thought of this major drawback, he was trying not to think about the trouble that it would cause until the time came. It appeared, however, that the time had come.

"Perhaps we could just borrow it without her knowledge?" he suggested weakly. "I mean, the staff have been running around the castle like mad things for the majority of the day; there's no guarantee that she'll even be in her office. We know the password. It would be comparatively easy to get in, take the sword and get out again."

"And we haven't exactly been strangers to breaking an entering during our time at Hogwarts," Ron pointed out. Hermione opened her mouth to protest but seemed to think better of it and closed it again at the last minute. Since she had already accepted that she was not going to succeed in talking the other two out of their dangerous scheme, perhaps she thought that there was no point in trying to talk them out of one of the less risky aspects; especially when all three of them knew that there was really no alternative. She shook her head and turned away from them, peering out of the window towards the dread presence at the gates and them up into the darkening sky.

"It's such miserable weather," she said, the statement so completely unrelated to anything that they had just been discussing that Ron and Harry exchanged incredulous looks. "No-one would notice a little extra moving cloud cover in the midst of the swirling storm, would they?"

Harry recognised her meaning.

"Hermione, I knew we could count on you."

"Well, since I can't stop you I might as well help you as much as I can," she said. "Now, don't you two have a sword to steal? I need to work on camouflaging my clouds with the rest of them in case they do end up too noticeable."

Harry and Ron left the dormitory without another word, and they sidled down the steps and into the common room, hoping not to be noticed by the rest of the occupants and have to answer awkward questions about why they'd taken it into their heads to practise quidditch at this of all times. When they arrived in the room, however, they found it near empty, with only a few first years glued to the scene that was unfolding outside the window. The others must have gone off to round up the rest of the DA, although Harry doubted that Professor McGonagall would stand for any of the youngest members becoming embroiled in the now-inevitable battle. He and Ron left Gryffindor tower and hurried through the corridors; the few people that they met were too engrossed in their own goals to pay them or their broomsticks any heed. Here in the open, where everyone was preparing for attack on a greater or lesser scale, they were less likely to attract attention.

On their arrival at the headmistress's office, Harry knocked politely and, on receiving no reply, motioned for Ron to wait outside with their brooms. He crept in, prepared for an onslaught by the portraits, but none came. The frames were empty; even Dumbledore's chair was unoccupied. Whether the old heads had sensed the danger that the castle was in and made provisions for their escape or hiding accordingly, Harry could not say; he was simply grateful that his activities weren't under any more scrutiny. It was not really stealing, he told himself, nor was it even borrowing, since the sword did still technically belong to him. He was still justifying himself when he returned to Ron and slipped the sword under his cloak to conceal it.

"Astronomy tower?" suggested Ron.

The tallest tower, with its open balcony, was the only place in the castle where they could theoretically get outside without begin noticed; the rest of the castle's exits were barred and bolted and their leaving through them would have engendered much unwanted attention. All they had to do was hope that the astronomy professor was not keeping a look-out.

"It'll be fine," Ron reassured Harry, evidently thinking along the same lines. "If McGonagall isn't in her office then it's unlikely that Sinistra will be in hers. Besides, we can always fly up the tower if needs be."

Harry had a momentary image of their knocking an irate Professor Sinistra's hat off on the way up, but the comedic effect was completely at odds with the seriousness of the situation and he pushed it to one side. By mutual consent the two boys picked up their speed, increasing to almost, but not quite, a run as they traversed the corridors.

As selfish as the thought was, Harry was glad to have Ron by his side and know that he was not alone in this perilous mission. When Hermione had objected he had not expected Ron to defy her; during the past year he had often bowed to her sound judgement. This time, however sound her judgement, her logic could not work. Nagini had to be destroyed, and she had to be destroyed before Voldemort entered the grounds – and who knew when that might be? Faced with these unavoidable facts, Ron had accepted the dangers that they would face and had accompanied him in spite of them. For a moment, Harry wondered whether it would have been like this if they had not returned to Hogwarts in September, if they had travelled around looking for horcruxes and living from day to day. Would their camaraderie have held out so long? He pushed the thought to the back of his mind and focused on the task at hand; there was no use in contemplating what could have been.

They had just reached the top of the astronomy tower and stepped out onto the balcony when they heard footsteps careening up the stairs behind them and Professor Sinistra's voice, trembling with outrage, roaring at them.

"What in Merlin's name do you think you're doing?"

Ron looked at Harry and shrugged.

"No time to lose," he said.

They mounted their broomsticks and kicked off from the floor, the heavy mist and Hermione's cloud cover providing sufficient obscurity to shield them from the view of those on the ground.

"Come back here! Idiot boys! You'll get yourselves killed! Get back here this instant!"

Harry had never known the young astronomy teacher so exceptionally angry before, and he felt a pang of guilt at causing her such near-apoplexy, but there was nothing to be done about it, not now. They could hear her flinging spells at them to try and pull them back, but they were already out of reach, flying on as fast as the clouds could take them. When they reached the boundary line, where the magical protections that had defended them from harm thus far would end and they would be open to attack from all sides, both boys paused. They hovered for a moment, readying themselves to take that plunge, and then headed out over the gates.

It was like flying through treacle, and Harry could see at once why there was very little precedent for people leaving the grounds in this manner. Indeed, the only previous examples that he could think of were the Weasley twins in his fifth year. The magic was trying desperately to keep them in, but unlike the wards that were currently hung on the castle itself, these were designed to keep potential malefactors out, not to hem people in. All the same, even though the wave of magic was slowly and steadily yielding, Harry felt that he might lose control of the broom at any moment and come tumbling out of the sky into the midst of Voldemort's army, knowing that his previous momentum would return as soon as he was free of the palpable mist of spells that was clawing at him so urgently.

Finally they were through, and it took all their skills as quidditch players not to perform a spectacular nose dive and land in a heap at Voldemort's feet. They were there, in the enemy camp, and Harry would admit to feeling terrified. It was not death that he feared, as such, he had accepted it as a possible outcome of this escapade already. No, he was far more scared of failing in their task, of it all being for nothing. What if Nagini was not where they thought she would be; what would they do then having taken such an incredible risk? Silently they flew high over the heads of Voldemort and his followers, watching them deep in discussion. There seemed to be less of them than when they had first arrived, and Harry wondered nervously what had happened at the gates whilst he and Ron had been engaged in finding the sword and making their way to the astronomy tower. They touched down on the path that led from the village to the school, and it was there that their task began in earnest; trying to find a needle in a haystack, or a snake in the dark.

"If I was an evil wizard, where would I hide my snake?" muttered Ron.

"Over there," said Harry, pointing over to a cluster of trees at the side of the path. Something pearlescent was shining dimly in the weak streaks of moonlight, and it could obviously not be anything natural. As they moved closer, they saw that it was the shimmer of a glamour, catching the occasional light and betraying its presence in the thick underbrush. Through the glamour could be seen a cage of pulsing magic, and in it was Nagini, curled up languidly with her eyes closed, seemingly asleep, or dormant at the very least.

"How do we get to her?" Ron whispered. "I doubt You-Know-Who's spell can be broken with a simple _wingardium leviosa_."

Harry crept up to the cage, keeping a look out on all sides so any other protection that Voldemort might have put in place to guard his final, and thus most precious, horcrux. At this late stage he would not put anything past the other wizard. He stopped a few paces short and started, fancying that he heard something, and all of a sudden the full weight of the idiocy of his plan came tumbling down on him. He had walked into a trap, he knew it, Voldemort had expected this, of course he wasn't going to leave Nagini undefended...

"Harry!" exclaimed Ron. "What are you waiting for? Do something!"

Harry looked around him and listened carefully for any more signs of life before continuing. He thought he saw something out of the corner of his eye but as soon as he turned to look at it, it was gone, and Ron showed no signs of having also spotted it. It was really too quiet for his liking but he couldn't remain frozen like a deer in the headlights for any longer; the more time they spent out of the castle boundaries, the more they were leaving themselves open for attack. He walked around the cage, and he wondered how to get past it. As much as it disgusted him to try and think like Voldemort, he found himself trying to imagine how his enemy would retrieve the snake in a hurry should he need her. It struck him suddenly, the idea coming into his head almost unrelated to anything else. Parseltongue. If he could not get to Nagini, perhaps he could get Nagini to come to him.

As he opened his mouth to speak, a terrible thought occurred to him. It was more than likely that Nagini, like the basilisk in the Chamber of Secrets, would only obey her master's voice. Still, he thought, he could at least try. He had managed to fool the gates of Malfoy Manor… Maybe the cage was constructed under the same principles and he could attempt to fool that as well.

"_Open_," he hissed, the sibilant language as always seeming to have a life of its own when he spoke it; sounding like English in his ears although he knew it could not be. At first nothing happened, but then the shimmering glamour disappeared and the cage faded. Nagini woke, lifting her head off her looped coils of tail and opening her eyes, fixing him with an unblinking yellow glare.

Harry lost the ability to move. Somewhere in the fuzzy background, he could hear Ron calling to him, but the words were indistinct as another voice echoed inside his head, speaking to him without seeming to go through the medium of his ears.

_Hello, Harry._

The voice was low and smooth but undeniably female, and Harry was immediately struck with the impression that he was speaking to Nagini herself, much as he had spoken to the boa at the zoo all those years earlier, before any of his magical capacity had come to light.

_I'm afraid that your journey ends here._

Harry was still unable to move, transfixed by the snake's eyes to the extent where he felt he had been petrified by the gaze of the basilisk. He knew he needed to move, he knew that all he needed to do was swing the sword in his hands and bring it down into the snake, but he couldn't do so, fighting a losing battle with his mesmerisation as he was.

_Prepare to meet your end, Harry Potter. It will be very quick and painful, I assure you…_

In that moment, Harry realised why Nagini had no additional protection. Like the other horcruxes before her, she could protect herself, and even more so given her own high degree of sentience unrelated to her magical capacity. She raised her head back, her jaws wide open and the venom shining on her fangs, ready to strike, but Harry was still unable to move, still entranced by the voice of the horcrux inside his head.

_It will only take a moment_, it hissed to him, crooning almost.

"Harry, no!" There was a rush of air as something heavy hurled itself against his chest, pushing him backwards, and the world went momentarily black as his head cracked against the ground. Simultaneously, he heard something, although it was as if his ears were full of cotton wool; everything was muffled and fuzzy… A roar of pain and another voice, a third voice, but he could not make out the words. Before he could regain his vision, he felt a hand grab his shoulder and the familiar jolting sensation of apparition.

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**Note2: **Why do the chapters that give me the most stress and writer's block whilst writing them always end up the longest? Never mind that, onwards! For once I haven't left you on a cliffie!


	62. Red and Green

**Note: **Part two of today's update!

**Note2:** I have had to take some liberties with Nagini as she's a completely unique snake and her venom seems to have unique properties. After some research I've based her and her other venomous effects mainly on the king cobra, as she seems to fit in with its traits: they are the largest poisonous snakes in the world, they are a unique genus, they are unusually maternal and intelligent for snakes, and they have a tendency to mesmerise…

**Disclaimer:** I am not a medical professional. I only did one first aid certificate for crying out loud, so I can resuscitate someone but that's it. I accept no responsibility whatsoever for the consequences of anyone using my methods of first aid…

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**Chapter Sixty-Two**

**Red and Green**

"WELL KILL THE BLOODY THING THEN!"

The shout, flavoured with fear and desperation, rang in Harry's ears, jerking him back from the trancelike state that Nagini had held him in and depositing him in the real world with the blunt force of a rampaging elephant charging into him. He was suddenly assaulted on all sides by sound and sight but most importantly smell; the disgusting metallic smell of blood. He remembered now, remembered seeing the blur of Ron throwing himself between him and the snake, he remembered the fangs ready to bite, and finally he saw the scene in front of him. Nagini was latched onto Ron's arm, blood dribbling from the wound where her fangs still held fast in a thin red stream; his injury made worse by her thrashing tail, which Draco was attempting to hold still in order to give Harry a clear line of sight to attack with the sword. It was obvious that it was he who had yelled, but where had he come from?

There was no time to be wasted in contemplation, and Harry brought the point of Gryffindor's sword down into the diamond pattern on Nagini's back. Immediately the serpent let loose Ron's arm, an angry hiss that was eerily similar to a human scream echoing from her jaws. Harry struck again to make doubly sure, and the tar-like substance that he had come to associate with the destruction of a horcrux began to ebb sluggishly from the wounds, then from the spaces between her scales themselves until there was nothing left of the snake but a smoking puddle of dark magic residue.

"Harry…"

Harry let the sword fall to the ground and ran to Ron's side, where the blood was flowing faster now that Nagini's fangs were no longer acting as a barrier. His friend had gone a pale grey colour, he was shivering and cold perspiration was running down his face.

"It'll be alright, Ron," said Harry, although he had no idea how it could be alright. He had no idea where they were or indeed how they had got there, although he suspected that Draco's sudden appearance must have had something to do with it, and he suspected that it was Draco whose presence he had sensed in the trees before. Where in Merlin's name had he come from and why had he attempted to assist Harry, rather than hinder him? The Slytherin came over to the two friends and gingerly helped Harry put pressure on the wound in an attempt to staunch it.

"What are you doing?" asked Ron of Draco weakly.

"Trying to help," said Draco levelly.

"Why?"

"Because as much as I might hate you, I don't want you dying on me. Besides, I have good reason for hating the snake more than you. I saw you two come for her and decided it was best to just let you get on with it."

Ron's eyelids flickered, and Harry began to panic.

"Ron! Wake up! Don't die!"

Suddenly another voice entered the room and Harry finally became fully aware of his surroundings. Draco had brought them home, to his home at least. They were in the drawing room of Malfoy Manor, a place that Harry had often visited in his dreams and thus recognised, and Draco's mother was absolutely furious. Harry wondered for a split second how they could explain precisely what had just happened and how they managed to end up there, but Ron's critical condition was far too important for such thoughts and he returned his attention to his friend, who was still hanging onto consciousness by a thread. Draco opened his mouth to explain as Mrs Malfoy threw herself onto floor beside them, but she ignored him, pulling out her wand and retrieving bandages and vials from nowhere.

"No no no! I am not having someone else succumb to that loathsome reptile tonight!" There was a hint of shaking hysteria in her voice but her hands were perfectly steady as she set the crepe to work winding itself around Ron's arm and measuring out doses. It was only at this point that Harry saw that the rug upon which they had landed was already covered in dark blood stains from a previous victim and he wondered grimly who else had died at Nagini's fangs.

"Where in Merlin's name is Severus when you need him?" she cried.

Dead, thought Harry numbly, remembering Voldemort's cruel message to Professor McGonagall. He looked across at Draco, who shook his head, although Harry could not divine the meaning of the action. Did it mean that Snape wasn't dead, or that they shouldn't tell his mother that he was? Whichever way the gesture was intended, Snape was not with them and could not be easily contacted, and Ron's condition did not appear to be improving. Mrs Malfoy flicked her wand and the bandage cut off, but the blood was already beginning to bloom red through the crepe. She uncorked one of the potion vials and poured its contents carefully into Ron's mouth; he spluttered slightly but swallowed weakly. His impromptu nurse's hands momentarily stilled their activity and began to shake violently. Her next words were spoken so softly that Harry almost did not catch them, but they did not inspire any courage in him.

"I can't do this… Where's Cam, Severus…"

"Mother," said Draco sharply, taking her shoulder in a firm grip. "Mum, it's not impossible. You know more than we do so you've got to take the lead here." He looked up at Harry for assistance and, Harry thought, encouragement. "We'll help but it's got to be quick!"

Harry nodded his agreement.

"What do we need to do?"

Mrs Malfoy closed her eyes and took a deep breath.

"Her venom is not like that of an ordinary snake; it prevents wounds from closing and increases heart rate to drain the body faster; the venom only kills if the blood loss doesn't. The potion will counteract the cardiac effects but not the blood loss and it is only a temporary measure… He's going into shock, we need to keep him awake."

Harry looked down at Ron's greying face; his eyes were still open although now and then his eyelids would flicker.

"Ron, can you hear me, you've got to stay awake," he said as Draco received further instructions from his mother.

"I'm awake, Harry," he said weakly, his voice halting between shallow breaths. "You did it, you know… Got them all… You go after You-Know-Who now… Finish it… Don't worry… about me…"

"You're going to be fine, Ron, if your dad can get through it, you can."

Harry only hoped that his words would ring true. He looked up at Draco's mother, who was now tying another bandage round the top of Ron's arm and over his wound. Draco had disappeared but returned a moment later with his arms full of blankets. Mrs Malfoy nodded, seeming to be calming down slightly.

"He would not have had a full dose of venom as she has already killed tonight; he was just unfortunate that she bit where she did, into a main vein."

This gave Harry a little hope, but not nearly enough. As he kept talking, kept encouraging Ron to remain awake, internally he was cursing himself. At the end of the previous year, when he had resolved to go on alone on his horcrux hunt, he had tried to persuade his friends not to accompany him for fears of their safety. Now, after all these months of safety, on the one occasion when they had stepped out into the danger that he had been expecting to face throughout his journey, the friend who had accompanied him had been attacked, injured, nearly killed… It was precisely what he had been wanting to prevent, and precisely what he had been so glad to avoid when they had made the ultimate decision to return to Hogwarts. The irony was biting; even more biting was the gratitude that he had felt when Ron had decided to accompany him beyond the boundaries.

"We should get him back to Hogwarts," said Draco. "Madame Pomfrey…"

Ron was still conscious, and his breathing seemed to be less laboured now. Whatever the potions were, they seemed to be having the required effect, but Harry and undoubtedly the others in the room were aware of time ticking away. Ron needed proper medical care that could not be provided on a drawing room rug, and in that moment, Hogwarts seemed to be the proper option. Madame Pomfrey could be counted upon to act first and ask questions later, and Harry felt too horribly drained from their latest awful adventure, despite the adrenaline still coursing through him, to try and explain anything to mediwitches and wizards unknown. He didn't even know how one contacted St Mungo's in an emergency.

"It'll all be all right, Ron," he reassured his friend, the words having little effect on his own mental turmoil. "We'll get you fixed."

Ron nodded as Mrs Malfoy tied off the second roll of crepe, and Harry heard the rush of green flames roaring into life in the grate beside them.

"Harry…"

Harry looked up to see Draco gesturing towards the fireplace, his expression asking for help even if he couldn't bring himself to do so in words. Harry could see his problem: Draco had been persona non grata at Hogwarts for a long time even before his summary desertion in March, when he had run out of the gates with Snape and Harry hot on his heels, never to be seen within the school's walls since. For him to suddenly arrive in the school in the middle of its lockdown claiming to require Madame Pomfrey's assistance immediately because Ron Weasley was injured in his drawing room…

Harry knew that he was going to have to make the journey to find the nurse, but at the same time, he did not want to leave Ron. His eyes returned to Ron's pale face.

"Go on…" his friend encouraged. "Sooner rather than… later…"

Harry stood, still uneasy with the thought of what might happen in his absence and his inability to fully trust Mrs Malfoy, and he and Draco stepped into the fireplace.

"Hogwarts, head's office."

The familiar disorientating sensation of Floo powder swept them up and flung them through the chimneys to their destination – no matter how many times he travelled in this manner Harry was certain that he would never get used to it – but they stopped short of their receiving grate, their path blocked.

"This isn't right," said Draco, tapping the invisible forcefield with his wand and being met with a shower of multicoloured sparks. "Even with the castle in lockdown, this fireplace should still be open. This isn't right…"

Harry could hear the panic rising in the other boy's voice, and a thought struck him that ignited a similar feeling in his own chest. As far as he could tell, Floo travel worked one way only; they could not simply go back the way that they had come now that they were here. They were trapped behind this fireplace, staring out into McGonagall's office but unable to reach it, unable to get through and get help, and with no way of letting anyone know their predicament. If this was part of Hogwarts' defences, then it was a cruelly clever one, leaving assailants with no way of escape. He thought of Ron, lying on the bloodstained rug, and he thought of Hermione, who had tried so desperately to talk them out of their escapade. His mind flitted frantically from one image to the next, the stuffy, smoke-choked air of the chimney place making him light-headed and irrational. He couldn't die here, so ignominiously, with only his oldest enemy for company. What a way to go…

"Help!" Draco yelled, another shower of sparks erupting from their unknowable barrier, although quite what he hoped to achieve with this was beyond Harry in that moment. Surely no-one would hear them? The entire school was cloistered away against the threat baying at the gates, they were stuck, Ron was still bleeding…

"Oh good grief!"

Professor McGonagall's voice snapped Harry back into rational thought from his half-delusional downward spiral. He turned to see the headmistress peering into the fireplace with a look of utter disbelief on her face.

"How on Earth did you… Oh never mind, that's not important, we need to get you out of there."

"Professor, we need Madame Pomfrey," said Draco. "It's urgent."

The headmistress opened her mouth to speak, as if she was going to ask the fateful questions 'why?' and 'what's happened?' before appearing to think better of it. She took a step back and raised her wand, but she had no more luck than Draco in penetrating the shield. She raised her eyes heavenwards and gave a small groan of recognition.

"This is what they meant when they said that no-one could come in, friend or foe."

"Professor!" Draco's tone held a note of exasperation. "Ron Weasley's been bitten by Nagini! We need Madame Pomfrey or Snape!"

The few words were all it took to galvanise Professor McGonagall back into action. She cast a patronus, spoke a low message to it and watched it split itself into two identical copies and bound out of the door towards its intended recipients. A few moments later, Madame Pomfrey appeared, with Snape following a few seconds behind. Whilst Draco launched into an explanation of Ron's fragile state of health, Harry simply stared at the potions master with undisguised disbelief and wonder; this was the man that Voldemort had boasted dead only a few short minutes before they had left the castle grounds, here alive in front of them.

He remembered Mrs Malfoy's words and her hysteria, remembered the blood on the rug and Draco's new-found cause to hate Nagini, and the wildest of theories began to plant themselves in his head. He focused on the office and the people inside it to take his mind away from idle speculation. The three of them were standing in a huddle in the centre, their argument in tones inaudible but evidently vehement from the gestures and looks being passed between them. He could only catch the odd word – Ron, protection, shield, no defence, Voldemort… Finally Professor McGonagall's frustration broke free from constraint and she left the room at a run, her footsteps echoing on the stairs. Madame Pomfrey came over to the grate.

"We will need to bring Ron back to Hogwarts for treatment," she said. "Professor McGonagall has gone to lift the protections in place to open the fireplace once more." She paused, seeming to be speaking to herself rather than to them. "We had managed to invoke an old power to protect the castle against all comers, friend and foe. It has indeed delayed our foes, but I fear it can help us no longer. Nothing is infallible."

Harry felt it then, the magical disturbance that accompanied the lifting of the invisible block between him and Draco and the office, and they passed through the remnants of the protection and into the room; Harry could still feel the traces of the same heavy magic that he and Ron had flown through on their quest to destroy Nagini. As they fought their way through it, Professor McGonagall entered the room again from the door.

Their arrival heralded a frenzy of activity that Harry could not quite fit himself into, so he remained at one side, watching everything that was being done by people who had a far better idea of what to do than himself. Coming, going, people disappearing and reappearing, suddenly Hermione was there, then Ron was back with them, and Draco had vanished once more into the ether, and Harry had no idea whence they had come or where they were going, as if he was an observer in a dream, unable to participate. It was only now that the reality of what had just happened began to dawn on him through the worry for his best friend. The horcruxes were destroyed. All of them. Now that it was clear to him that Ron was in safe hands and there was nothing more for him to worry about at that present moment in time, the realisation made itself known. They'd done it, what he and Dumbledore had set out to do at the beginning of the previous year, the process that he himself had started back in the Chamber of Secrets years ago. Halfway to victory…

"Harry…"

Harry came back to himself to find Professor McGonagall looking at him. They were alone in the office again.

"Perhaps you could tell me what just happened."

The headmistress looked more tired and harried than she had done for the majority of the very wearing year, and Harry felt a pang of sympathy for her as he began his tale, keeping it short and to the point, offering no excuses or justifications for his behaviour, just the facts. Professor McGonagall didn't interrupt, but as his explanation continued, he could see her expression becoming increasingly sorrowful.

"Professor, all the horcruxes have been destroyed," he finished breathlessly. "There's only Voldemort left now."

Instead of looking pleased that he had succeeded in the mission that Dumbledore had appointed him, Professor McGonagall seemed to be graver than ever. She shook her head and indicated for Harry to stay where he was. Harry felt his heart beginning to beat in his mouth. What had he missed? What was wrong? He had destroyed the six horcruxes, hadn't he?

"Professor McGonagall, what's the matter?" he asked nervously as she opened the cupboard that housed the pensieve, pouring a single memory into it.

"I am not the right person to tell you that, Harry," she said, and Harry could see that she was trying very hard to maintain her composure and not break down into the tears that were threatening at the corners of her eyes. "Professor Dumbledore will explain everything. You have destroyed the six horcruxes, yes, but I am afraid that it is not as simple as that."

Professor McGonagall nodded towards the pensieve, and Harry took a step forward.

"Harry, you have achieved so much, and I am so very sorry that it has come to this," she said. "We should have told you sooner, but the time was never right, and now it is a worse time than ever but it can wait no longer. Good luck, Harry. We will try to buy you as much time as we can. Now that the castle's added protections are no longer in place I doubt it will be long before Voldemort realises and takes advantage."

She left the room and Harry looked up at the portrait of the headmaster that hung behind the desk. Dumbledore had returned from wherever he had been when they had entered the office to take the sword, and presently he nodded his grave agreement.

"Things will become clear, Harry."

With a terrible sense of foreboding, Harry dived into the pensieve, and whatever fate awaited him there.

* * *

**Note3:** *Kimmeth looks up from forcing Mr Karimloo into a box to post to her dear friend NCD.* See you next time folks! Stay tuned for death, destruction, Dawlish, inept wizards named Jim and witches wielding chair legs – that's right, we're back in the Ministry!


	63. Under a Full Moon

**Serious note:** This has officially been my longest break between updates ever, and I am really sorry. I do apologise for how erratic updates have been for the last year (dear lord, it's been a year since I stopped updating to a timetable), but please know that writing is my lifeline, it is what keeps me sane, and I can't do it if I don't enjoy it. Recently my HP spark just hasn't been here so I have been taking a little time out to re-energise and relax by writing other things. Both C&I and my sanity would suffer if I were to force it. Thanks for understanding and please enjoy this chapter.

* * *

**Note:** Werewolves: you can imagine them to look however you want but I personally see them as more wolf than human – generally on all fours, canine body shape, thick fur, etc. In the books they talk about recognising the features that separate real wolves from werewolves so I assume they look fairly similar.

**Previously on C&I:** Harry is about to learn something not very pleasant after destroying all the horcruxes, Ron is in the hospital wing after the last horcrux fought back, and the castle's protections are waning. Meanwhile, the Order have stormed the Ministry in order to try and break the curse on the Minister and grant the government autonomy again, but whilst they have the support of the entire auror office, things aren't exactly going to plan. Bill and Percy have a hostage situation, and Arthur, after realising that it's a full moon that night, has heard a scream in the Department for the Regulation and Control of Magical Creatures…

* * *

**Chapter Sixty-Three**

**Under a Full Moon**

Once he had entered the corridor it was clear to Arthur from which room the scream had emanated. The heavy pine-panelled door of the Gargoyle Liaison Office was hanging off its hinges, five long claw marks gouged into it and splinters surrounding the handle and lock where it had been wrenched open. A low growl came from within the room, followed by another scream, but this time Arthur could divine an expression of frustration amid the terror.

"Get out, you mangy mongrel!"

Arthur raised an eyebrow as he hurried down towards the office; the witch inside it was either incredibly brave or incredibly stupid. Another growl, more ferocious than the first, was followed by the sound of splintering wood and the sharp crack of magic. A shower of sparks flew out of the doorway, narrowly missing Arthur, and he had to duck as the two pieces of the broken wand that had caused the minor catastrophe hurtled out after the embers. Finally, Arthur could survey the scene within the office. Greyback was at one end of the destroyed room, where a witch was precariously balanced on a battered-looking desk, wielding what appeared to be a chair-leg and attempting to hold the wolf off with it, giving him a hefty blow on the side of the head when he tried to lunge at her.

"Which idiot," she began, panting, "decided to defend the Ministry with a werewolf on the flaming full moon?" The last word became a shriek as the desk she was perched on finally gave up the ghost and sent her tumbling down. Arthur took this as his cue to act, although he was not at all sure what the best course would be since anything he did would simply divert Greyback's attention from the witch onto him. He leapt into the room fully and cast a stunning spell at the same moment that the werewolf turned; it ricocheted off the pile of timber that had once been a desk and Greyback began his advance towards Arthur. He tried his full arsenal of spells but the werewolf was too agile; all they seemed to do was delay his progress rather than incapacitate him completely. There was a reason, Arthur thought, why werewolves were so incredibly dangerous and why it took professional training to try and bring them down. Out of the corner of his eye he saw the wandless witch pick herself from the remains of her desk and arm herself with chair-leg once more, her movements slow and quiet. Arthur could guess what she was intending to do and shook his head in disbelief at her sheer madness. A small part of him simply considered turning tail and running as the safest option, but before he could decide upon a further course of action, he felt something rush through the door past him.

"Heads up!" roared a Scottish accent, and Arthur could only cower as an executioner's great axe was swung over his head, connecting with the werewolf and taking its right ear clean off. In the same moment, another howl, further away but still audible and undeniably lupine, ripped through the air. The wolf pricked up its remaining ear and bounded out of the room towards the source of the sound, towards Lupin. Of course, thought Arthur grimly. Fight fire with fire. Fight a werewolf with a werewolf; one in full control of his own mind against one still willingly enslaved to lunar whims.

Safe at last, or so he thought, Arthur took a proper look at the axe-wielding shape whose intervention had been so timely. It was, he realised with a jolt, a Death Eater, who was now prising the chair-leg from the witch's hands.

"Marlena, you cannot kill a werewolf with bits of furniture, you cretin," he said. "Where's your wand?"

"In pieces," the witch replied sourly. "I thought that since I've lost my specs and I can't see what I'm aiming at anyway, the chair was better than nothing." She squinted past the Death Eater at the increasingly confused Arthur. "Thank you for saving me."

The Death Eater turned, revealing the maskless face of Walden Macnair.

"Are you still here?" he asked. "There's havoc downstairs, your lot needs all the help they can get," he added, picking up a piece of twisted purple metal that had once been a pair of cat's-eye spectacles and grimacing before casting an inexpert reparo and returning them to their owner.

Arthur was about to ask the pressing question of whose side Macnair and the witch, whom he now recognised to be Marlena Dolohov, were on, when there was a yell from the other end of the corridor.

"Arthur, is that you? I thought I saw you earlier, I've been looking all over for you. There's something very odd going on in Courtroom One!"

Arthur turned to see Perkins, his old colleague from Muggle Artefacts, running down the corridor towards him.

"The Ministry's gone mad, Arthur!" Perkins did not seem to be in the slightest bit phased that Arthur had not been at work for the best part of the last nine months and carried on as normal. "The Minister's gone doolally, there are werewolves in the Department of Mysteries, someone's tap dancing the length of the Department for Magical Sports and Games and Doris swears she saw a mad axe-murderer in the lift…"

Perkins tailed off on looking into the room to see the bloodied axe in Macnair's hands.

"Don't mind us, we were just leaving," said the Death Eater.

"Walden, whose side are you on now?" asked the rather perplexed-sounding Mrs Dolohov as he led her out of the room past the speechless wizards. "I don't care, I just want to know who not to hit."

"Whichever one keeps me alive the longest," muttered Macnair. "So currently, my own. Come on, let's find your Tonin and persuade him to accompany us somewhere Very Far Away. Like Mongolia."

Perkins and Arthur looked at each other.

"What were you saying about tap dancing?" asked Arthur eventually as they entered the lift at the other end of the corridor, but before Perkins could reply, the two men found themselves being assaulted by something wet, stringy, and exceedingly violent.

"Take that, you imposters!" came a battle cry from somewhere in the vicinity of the lift corner, closely followed by "oops, sorry gents." The attack stopped and their assailant revealed itself to be a humble mop, enchanted by its owner, Mrs Doris Crump, one of the Ministry's cleaning staff. She cast a spell to dry off the two wizards. "Did you find my axe-murderer, Perkins?" she asked.

"Oh yes, Doris, I did," said Perkins faintly, still reeling from the mop's assault.

"I told you I wasn't going potty. Which floor do you want?"

"Department of Mysteries," Perkins replied.

"Perkins, I thought you said that was the direction that the werewolves had gone in. Are you sure it's wise to follow them?" asked Arthur.

"Better to follow them than have them following us," said Perkins darkly. "Besides, weren't the werewolves in the Department of Magical Sports and Games tap dancing? Oh, I don't know what's going on; I keep hoping that it's all a bad dream and I'll wake up in a minute."

Feeling that his former colleague had managed to completely confuse himself and was about to lead them into even further calamity, Arthur was in half a mind to jump out when the lift stopped in the atrium, but remembered the melee going on there and decided it was possibly safer to remain with Doris and Perkins. As the lift doors opened onto the atrium, however, Arthur only had time to catch a brief glimpse of the action therein – the aurors seemed to have gained several reinforcements – before he was bowled over by a pink-haired cannonball racing into the lift and jabbing the button for the Department of Mysteries with its wand.

"If Remus gets himself killed, I'm going to murder him!" Tonks exclaimed. "Of all the idiotic, heroic things to do!"

It looked as if they were set for the Department of Mysteries and Courtroom One after all. Arthur coughed before addressing the angry young auror.

"Erm, how are things looking out there?" he asked, nodding in the general direction of the atrium.

"Rather well, actually," she replied, seeming to brighten slightly. "You know what they say, once an auror, always an auror. Once Collins sent out the message that we needed assistance, word got round the old grapevine and everyone started arriving to help, even Godfrey Pinkerton and he's been retired for ten years. Some of them have gone up to help Bill and Percy." She paused. "I wonder how they're getting on. Do you think we'd have heard something by now if they'd been successful?"

"Give it time," said Arthur. "Some of the curses that Bill's worked with over the years take weeks to break,"

At this point the lift doors pinged open onto the Department of Mysteries, as eerily quiet and undisturbed as it always seemed to be, even despite the chaos reigning in the rest of the Ministry.

"That's what I'm worried about," muttered Tonks. "Hi, Doris, I didn't see you there."

It transpired that Doris, working on the principle of 'safety in numbers', had decided to accompany them to Courtroom One and was bringing up the rear of their little convoy with wand in one hand and mop in the other, her bucket of soapy water levitating along beside her and leaving a little trail of drips in the empty corridor where bubbles would occasionally slop over the edge. At least they'd be able to find their way back through the labyrinthine department in a hurry should they need to, Arthur reflected drily.

When they arrived at the courtroom, they paused for a moment, almost as if they were contemplating listening at the door, but since the heavy wood was purposefully charmed to prevent eavesdroppers, everyone knew that they'd be unlikely to hear anything of any assistance to their gauging the situation inside. Cautiously, Tonks tapped her wand against the door and it opened a fraction, allowing them to see inside the room and find themselves a safe hiding place therein…

X

Bill and Percy looked at each other, caught in their stalemate. Thicknesse was holding his secretary hostage; he would kill her at the first sign of any offensive from them, and even if he did not, she was still acting as a human shield that their spells would have to go through to get to him. Bill cursed inwardly. Of all the possible setbacks and problems that he had foreseen and prepared for, this was not one of them. Somehow they had to get the Minister away from his secretary, get the secretary's wand away from him, and put him out of action for the immediate future even if their efforts did not kill him in the process. He searched his younger brother's face for the vaguest hint of an idea, but Percy seemed to be lost in thought, glancing from the Minister to his terrified assistant, then to the ceiling, and back again.

"Don't worry about me!" cried the secretary bravely. "Get out and save yourselves!"

"Gwenda, be quiet," snapped Thicknesse, casting a spell to silence her. As bad as he would feel to leave her to her fate, Bill had to concede that she did have a point – it would be easier for them to just give it up as a bad job and leave; Thicknesse had not disarmed them. If they did that, however, then all the Order's work and sacrifices that had led up to this moment would have been for nothing. The Ministry would still be under You-Know-Who's control. They would have failed, and the Order would be broken by this attempt – a do or die moment if ever there was one. They were going to have to see this through to the bitter end; their only trouble was working out what to do to break this moment of uneasy truce. It would not be long before the Minister made his move, and they would have to be ready.

Outside the office, Bill could hear voices and running footsteps coming along the corridor, and from this distance he couldn't tell whether they were friend or foe. A snap decision would need to be made; they would have to act now if they were to stand any chance of survival and success. It was at that moment that inspiration flashed across Percy's face. Before Bill even had a chance to formulate any kind of question, his brother had waved his wand and the room had become engulfed in heavy white smoke. The next few moments were the epitome of chaos, each participant in the drama completely blind to the proceedings, making the combat even more dangerous. Bill only just had time to catch Gwenda as she was propelled across the room towards him, stunned but still breathing. He could see the flashes of spells exchanged between Thicknesse and Percy in the corner and he made his way towards them, coughing as the smoke worked its way up his nose and into his lungs.

Then two things happened at once. The door was flung open, and Bill ducked to avoid the barrage of spells that he recognised as belonging to the aurors' arsenal – help had arrived. At the same time, the Minister's voice gave a ferocious cry of 'avada kedavra!'

Bill threw himself on the ground as he saw the flash of green light, but the entry of the aurors prevented his hearing anything else. He heard more spells, as he got to his feet again he saw the smoke clearing and could make out the shapes of three aurors in the office alongside him, one tending to Gwenda, one levitating the obviously dead Thicknesse out of the office and the third…

Bill had only one thought on his mind as he rushed over to where his brother lay, face down on the carpet.

"Please don't be dead, Perce," he said. Surely he couldn't be dead, surely Thicknesse's curse couldn't have connected in the smoke with direction so haphazard. Surely he had just been hit by an auror's suppression spell as they had entered. "Please don't be dead."

As the auror turned Percy over and Bill saw his glassy, staring eyes behind broken spectacles, he knew that his pleas were to be of no avail.

X

To say that Courtroom One had been destroyed would be paying it a compliment. Tonks, Arthur, Perkins and Doris were lucky to find cover behind the few remaining benches left standing on the top level of spectator seating. Far below them, circling round the bottom of the courtroom where the accused would usually be seated, growling menacingly with the odd howl, were two werewolves. One was Greyback, the blood of his missing ear congealed black and matted in his mangy fur. The other, smaller and lighter, was indubitably Remus. There was no doubt that a vicious fight had been going on between the two, both were scratched, bitten and bleeding from various wounds, but neither was willing to concede. Greyback was, of course, merely on a crazed rampage instigated by the moon rather than acting on any conscious decision, but Remus's was an utterly human tenacity; despite his battered condition he was not going to give up whilst he still had the advantage of lupine form.

Presently Greyback pounced, the two wolves ending locked in a precarious tangle of claws and jaws. Tonks gave an involuntary gasp and covered her face with her hands for a moment before evidently deciding that seeing what was going on was preferable to simply hearing it and allowing her visual imagination to run riot.

The odds were not in Remus's favour. He was younger, smaller and not as physically strong as Greyback, and whilst possessed of more than enough blind determination, was not in the same bloodthirsty mindset as his attacker. All he had was the ability to think strategically, even if all that strategy consisted of at that moment in time was keeping Greyback occupied and away from everyone else until help arrived. His large, pale wolf's eyes glanced up at the new arrivals; he had seen them, but Greyback was too concerned with his current quarry to pay any attention to the humans above. In his eyes, Remus was injured and therefore easy prey, and he would finish him and eliminate any possible rivals for his future victims. Arthur knew that Remus would be unlikely to be able to finish Greyback off alone, and if they stood any chance of rescuing him and surviving themselves, they were going to have to take the other wolf down before he could kill Remus.

Tonks had evidently come to the same conclusion as Arthur, and carefully began to make her way a little closer to the fight, darting down between the damaged benches.

"Tonks, what are you doing?" Doris hissed. "It's madness!" Mad or not, Arthur was fairly certain that with her auror training behind her, Tonks was probably the only one of them who stood a fighting chance when up against a werewolf.

Presently, another voice entered the room.

"Oh ruddy hell, not again…"

Arthur looked up from the battle below to see that Macnair and Marlena had run into the room, evidently still searching for the latter's husband and an escape passport to the Far East, but before they could turn tail, Doris had jumped up with an exclamation of 'the axe-murderer!' and had set her mop and bucket to work on Macnair. It took Marlena several moments to convince the cleaner that they held no nefarious intentions, by which time the mop was rather the worse for wear having come up against the altogether more lethal combination of wand and axe.

It was then that Tonks made her move. Greyback had Remus pinned to the ground, snapping at his snout as Remus clawed at his attacker's chest in a fruitless attempt to push the larger wolf off. Tonks fired a spell at the huge grey wolf, and his distraction was such that he did not have time to move out the way. The curse connected, sending Greyback flying across the room where he crashed into the wreckage of the judge's desk. Remus struggled to get to his feet, panting heavily where his chest had been pinned, and Tonks rushed down the remainder of the tiered benches to get to him.

"Is he dead?" Doris asked nervously, looking at the unmoving wolf on the floor of the courtroom.

Arthur had no way of telling; thankfully the question was answered for him.

"No," said Macnair grimly. "Wolves become human again when they die. Something's not right there."

Ignoring Marlena's protests, he began to make his way down the benches like Tonks had done. Marlena and Doris crouched down beside Arthur and Perkins, peering over the top of their scant protection.

"He's just pretending," said Marlena suddenly. "Greyback does that sometimes, most wolves do if their prey fights back. Pretends he's more injured than he is, then strikes again. Hopefully Walden knows what he's doing."

It was only now that Arthur remembered that Macnair and Greyback had been on the same side for a long time, and he was not altogether sure to trust that the former had truly switched allegiance after the altercation in Marlena's office. He looked down at Tonks and Remus, desperately wanting to shout a warning down to them but unsure whether that would do more harm than good.

Everything happened very quickly after that. Tonks' sharp auror's ears picked up the movement as Greyback got to his feet again, she turned and cast as he sprung, at the same time Macnair came down onto the main floor into casting range, firing off a spell of his own. The werewolf was frozen in mid-air, his hindquarters still not fully extended from the pounce. The witch and wizard looked at each other, their combined forces keeping him immobile. If they broke off the spell in order to cast another, he would regain movement and land on top of Tonks and Remus. Arthur tried to remember how the Ministry handled rogue werewolves, how the executioners dealt with them. If he was on their side – or at least, not on Greyback's – then Macnair was the person most suited to the job of despatching him.

Macnair dropped his wand in order to get a two-handed hold on his axe, and Greyback continued his flight through the air, albeit slowed by Tonks' spell, but only for a moment before the axe came down, cleanly this time unlike in the office before. The blade lodged in the wolf's thick neck and brought the great beast crashing down; the body was already twitching as it began to shift back into a human form before it hit the floor.

Macnair tugged his axe free and covered the transforming body with his cloak; whilst the matted fur had masked the wound on the wolf, the human body would show far more gruesome detail. He retreated towards the seating, picking up his wand and exchanging a final look of understanding with Tonks before making his way back up the tiers of destroyed benches as Arthur, Perkins and Doris deemed it safe to come out of hiding and make their way down towards Remus and Tonks. Although injured, their lupine colleague was back on his feet and looked to be recovering from his fight.

"Tonks, of all the idiotic things to do," Doris said as she picked her way through the splinters. "Rushing into a fight like that…"

"It worked, didn't it?" said Tonks, stroking the fur on the top of Remus's head between his ears like she would smooth down his hair in human form. "Besides… I just couldn't stand the thought of our little cub never knowing his father."

If Arthur had to take a step back on this sudden and casual announcement of Tonks' pregnancy, that was nothing to Remus's reaction. Arthur was fairly sure that if there had ever been a picture of a wolf about to faint, Remus embodied it now. Doris, a grandmother herself, merely rolled her eyes.

As they at last reached the floor, a commotion arose in the doorway, causing Arthur to look up. A group of aurors had come into the courtroom, apprehending Macnair who surrendered without a fight. Bill was with them, and Arthur surmised that these were the reinforcements whom Tonks had told of going to aid Bill and Percy. If Bill was here with them, then presumably the curse on Thicknesse had been broken; they had been successful. But if that was the case, then where was Percy?

Arthur felt the blood drain from his face as Bill made his way down to the group of Order members and their allies in the centre of the courtroom. Bill was just as white.

"Dad, it's Percy…"

X

The atrium looked as if… Well, muggles would say that it looked as if a bomb had hit it. It was possibly in even more of a mess than it had been two years ago when the Death Eaters had invaded the Department of Mysteries and You-Know-Who had made his return and continued existence abundantly clear in this very spot. How fitting that it should now be a scene that showed his waning power.

Hestia looked around her in wonder and not a little confusion. She had lost the Death Eater that she had been following, but had surmised enough to realise that he was making his way back down to the melee on the eighth floor. Deciding that she had no better battle plan than to follow him, she had taken the next lift down and had found herself in the midst of what could have been a veritable apocalypse. The number of aurors present had doubled since she had last been in the grand chamber, and it was evident that they had the situation fully under control by dint of simple outnumber if nothing else. Those few Death Eaters that were still alive and conscious had been disarmed and were being bound ready to be taken to somewhere secure.

It seemed that in the wake of this final battle being won, the rest of the Order were congregating here too – Dedalus, Elphias, Tonks, Remus – the lattermost still in his lupine form until the dawn would break outside. Hestia was primordially grateful to see that they had all survived, but there was a sadness in their faces that told of comrades departed, and she wondered with not a little rising panic whom they had lost. At the same time, though, there was a satisfaction in the air, the feeling that they had, against every single odd that might have been placed before them, succeeded. The Ministry had fallen just as quickly as it had fallen the previous summer, and hopefully they could rebuild it to its former glory from the ruins it now stood in, both metaphorical and physical. She moved further into the centre of the room, still surveying it with wonder, and she came over to Dedalus and the others. They were observing a very heated argument going on in one corner of the atrium that was attracting rather a lot of attention and was made even more entertaining by the fact that neither participant was speaking English. Whatever they were yelling at each other, Antonin and Marlena Dolohov were obviously very impassioned about something, the guttural sounds of their native tongue reaching a really most alarming volume. Marlena's hand gestures were getting more and more exuberant with every sentence and Hestia held no doubt that Antonin's would be mirroring her if his wrists hadn't been bound together.

Dedalus leaned into Hestia's ear.

"Can you speak Polish?" he asked. Hestia shook her head. "Damn it. I'd give good galleons to know what they're saying…"

Just then there was the sound of a lift reaching the atrium, and the entire group gathered there tensed as one, wondering if those newly arrived on the scene were friend or foe, whether they should attack or not.

"AARGH!" The two executioners burst onto the scene from the lift, wielding their great axes above their heads like madmen. "Down with corruption! Free the Ministry! Better pay for executioners! Down with Thicknesse… Oh." They tailed off when they saw the destruction in the atrium and the obviously victorious Order, with the aurors binding the surviving Death Eaters. "Are we too late?"

Out of the corner of her eye, Hestia saw Walden Macnair bury his head in his tied hands in despair.

Presently, Kingsley came over to them from where he had been nominally in charge of operations in the foyer, liaising with his fellow aurors.

"What now?" Dedalus asked. "That wasn't the entire army, by any manner or means; what I can't understand is where the rest of them are and why they haven't come."

Kingsley shook his head.

"Something tells me that they are engaged elsewhere, in a more important fight than this," he said. "And in that case, all we can do is wait and see, and give our assistance when it is required."

Hestia nodded her acquiescence. The Ministry was theirs once more, but the battle was far from won…

* * *

**Note2: **Marlena, mentioned very briefly in an earlier chapter, was created, along with Carmen, Camilla and Mareike, for another fic of mine that never got off the ground. Seeing as though I'd managed to get all the others in, I gave her a role here for a full set. Whilst in the middle of writing this chapter I made a visit to Bristol, and made the mistake of yelling 'you can't kill a werewolf with a chair-leg' in Whiteladies Road at the top of my voice…

But never mind that! The Ministry is secure but what of Hogwarts and its failing protections?


End file.
